


The Garden Bench

by PeachyKeener



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: 1910-1920 au, Angry Peter Parker, Downton Abbey AU, F/M, Forbidden Love, Gardener Peter Parker, Harley Keener Needs a Hug, Harley Keener is Tony Stark's Biological Child, He gardens!, Hurt Harley Keener, Hurt Peter Parker, Lord Bucky Barnes, Lord Harley Keener, Lord Tony Stark, M/M, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker-centric, Protective Bucky Barnes, Protective Peter Parker, Protective Tony Stark, Sick Harley Keener, Tags to be added as more plot is revelead, Well - Freeform, flash thompson is a good bro, kind of sort of - Freeform, nerdy peter Parker, read the notes for the first chapter, the fact that thats not a fucking TAG where the fuck are the other flash fans, theres no set date but like its in that edwardian post edwardian early wwi era, vaguely
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-14 18:33:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 30,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28675260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeachyKeener/pseuds/PeachyKeener
Summary: Science was beautiful. So was this boy.(take me in your tender arms, roll me in the dirt, cover me in roses, cover me in pearls.)((A Downton Abbey AU where Peter is a gardner struggling with himself and his thoughts and feelings towards a lord that no one asked for.))
Relationships: Harley Keener & Flash Thompson, Harley Keener & Tony Stark, Harley Keener's Mother/Tony Stark, Harley Keener/Peter Parker, Harry Osborn/Flash Thompson, James "Bucky" Barnes/Tony Stark, May Parker (Spider-Man) & Peter Parker, Michelle Jones & Ned Leeds & Peter Parker, Peter Parker & Flash Thompson, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 44
Kudos: 92





	1. boys working on empty

**Author's Note:**

> Howdy! 
> 
> A few things before you read this fic: 
> 
> A) This is a mystery fic before it is a love story. Or Maybe its a mystery fic _because_ its a love story. 
> 
> B) If Harley Keener seems out of character, there's a reason for this. You guys will see as the plot goes on, but for this first chapter he's a little less like the Harley's I usually write. You guys will see. I just want to state that there is a reason he's like this, and as the story unfolds, you'll see.
> 
> C) tags will be added as the plot gets revealed. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!!
> 
> And a big shout out to Ava (angxlsgrxce on tumblr) for beta reading for me!

The road up to the Stark estate was dusty and lined with gravel, but Peter was used to the dirt paths around his house. It was a bit of a way away from the village and it made him feel uneasy to be this far away from his aunt’s job at the hospital. He had no choice in the matter though- he needed this job. 

“I’m sorry I couldn’t get you anything higher than a gardener position,” Flash cleared his throat, giving him a pointed look, “And we’re lucky that Lord Harley let me slip away to collect you.”    
  
Peter tightened his cap on his head. It was the nicest hat he owned- one of Ben’s old ones, but still nice- and he’d worn it specifically for his first day on the estate. Anxiety bubbled in his chest, but he shook it off. “You didn’t need to collect me, Flash. I would’ve made it here just fine.”    
  
“I know  _ that,  _ but I wasn’t about to let you come into your first job where you have a  _ chance  _ to actually succeed and blow it up in your face because you’re an idiot.”    
  
“You-” He paused, moving to the side of the path to glare at his childhood friend. “I’m not an idiot.”    
  
Flash rolled his eyes sharply. “Yes. You are. How many jobs have you been through in the last year.”    
  
“Twelve but-”    
  
“But?”    
  
“It’s never my fault and you  _ know  _ that!”    
  
“I  _ do  _ know that.” His friend paused as well, meeting his eyes. “Just like I know that you can’t lose this one. Listen- Peter- I just want you to  _ succeed.  _ May needs you to succeed.”    
  
Guilt panged through his heart and he thought of his poor aunt, withering away working at the hospital. The boiling water that burnt her as she cleaned and disinfected, her shaky hands, how she had never ever been the same since the night it was Peter and Ben brought to the county hospital doors and not some stranger. 

“I didn’t say that to guilt you,” Flash whispered quickly. “I only say that because I know how important it is that you keep this job. I know that you dream of being a journalist, but you can’t survive on nothing and May can’t afford to feed two mouths even with the monthly check I send.”

He nodded, biting his tongue to quiet himself. “Fine. Tell me what I need to know.”    
  
“Lord Barnes is going to show you around the estate himself because this is your first day.” His friend’s attention turned to the road, scanning around the trees that surrounded the estate. “He does it for all the new hires- says he makes it personal and nice. He’s a kind lord and a good employer, but he’s very touchy about certain things. That being said you won’t ever enter the house again after that- not if it’s not for lunch in the servant’s quarters. Other than that, you’ll come here every morning at five and work until dusk and go home. ‘Cause you’re a gardener, you don’t get the perks I have of being afforded a room in the servant’s halls. I’m sorry about that- I tried to get you one but-”    
  
“I wouldn’t have wanted one,” Peter assured, following his friend’s line of sight. Even from the trees, he could see the turrets of the mansion. “I don’t want May to be alone.” 

Flash’s face went dark for a second before he nodded. They both knew he was thinking about how he’d left the house two years ago in order to take this valet job and it had broken May in her quiet way. They weren’t related by blood, but at some point, they’d become brothers. So when Flash’s father had…well, May and Ben took him in. Then Ben died. And May needed more income than the hospital was making and Flash left them alone. 

Peter shook the bitter thought from his head. “Okay but- what do I need to know for this tour of the house?”    
  
“Don’t touch anything.” And just like that Flash had snapped back into himself. “I’m serious. I know you have wandering hands and like imaging the portraits you could make, but do not touch anything. Touching leads to breaking and breaking leads to being sacked  _ and  _ having to pay them back. They’re kind, generous, good employers, but even they have rules about that sort of thing.”    
  
“No touching. Got it.”    
  
“Don’t go into the kitchen. You’re allowed to go to the servant's dining hall when you’re in for lunch, but don’t go into the kitchen. The cooks will slap you if you do- trust me, Mrs. Allen is a sharp hand and an even sharper wooden spoon, somehow. Now, if they ask you to bring them something- apples, some of the berries we keep on the land, some herbs, that’s different. Don’t go in unprompted and don’t just expect food.”   
  
“Okay. No touching, no kitchen.”    
  
“Never enter through the front door, only the servants. Actually- don’t even go into the house if not called for.”    
  
“Alright so, no touching, no kitchen, no house.”    
  
Flash pursed his lips and pulled him further off the road like he was afraid of being overheard. “Peter, the next three rules I’m going to tell you are  _ vital.  _ Those three are warnings but I need you not to find your way around the next three.”    
  
“Uh-” The sudden change in tone made Peter’s stomach feel uneasy. It wasn’t like the serious but light-hearted tone he’d given earlier- this one was a true warning. The hair on the back of his neck stood up. “Okay. Okay. I’m listening.”

“Never mention Lady Macy,” Flash whispered the name. “She was Lord Stark’s first wife and beloved by everyone in the world. She died when Lord Harley was one, and I don’t think Lord Stark ever fully recovered. Neither did Lord Harley but- that’s not exactly my place to tell. Lord Barnes was a godsend apparently because he never forced Lord Stark away from his grief, just gave him something new to love. But her portrait hangs in the Great Hall. Don’t ever mention it or even  _ look _ at it unless invited to.”    
  
The hair on the back of his neck stood up more. Why did that sound like an omen? Shaking his head, he reached out gently to squeeze Flash’s hand. “I’ll remember that.”    
  
Flash nodded and breathed out. “I’m telling you this in complete secrecy. Swear to me you’ll never repeat it.”    
  
“I swear.”    
  
“Never go near Lady Sunset Bain.” The dark look in Flash’s eyes would’ve been enough to tip him off to the seriousness, even if his voice hadn’t been a quiet and hushed warning. “I know you can hold your own. I know you do that street fighting for money. I know you’re strong. But Peter, I need you to swear never to go near Lady Sunset. She’s- she’s  _ evil.”  _

“I would never go near a lady-”    
  
“No, Peter, you don’t understand, she’ll come to  _ you,”  _ Flash spat, “She likes the garden and the servants call her a snake because she strikes to kill. She’s cruel and vicious, and- and she hates everyone but the family- fuck, she hates Lord Barnes sometimes, Peter. She only cares for Lord Stark and Lord Harley and even then… the other servants… we call her a viper- she’s always ready to strike for a kill. Last year she pretended one of the servants had spilt something on her so she had a reason to fire her, and then sent two of her own servants to take care of her. I- I need you to stay away from her, Peter. She’s bad.” 

A bitter feeling grew in Peter’s chest. The people in the village always talked of working at the estate like it was heaven- but now, he was already discovering that it was the opposite. He nodded. “I’ll avoid her at all costs. What’s the third thing?”    
  
“It’s…” The heat that had been there seconds ago drained away, and Flash worried at his bottom lip. “It’s a warning about Lord Harley. He’s- you will probably never see him, but even if you did, I’m asking you to avoid looking at him or talking to him. His fathers are very, very protective of him. He’s sickly, you know? And they worry over him. The quickest way to get your job lost is to try to approach him. I’m allowed to approach him and befriend him, only because I’m his valet- and I say friends in the loosest sense of the word. I do believe he wants to be friends with the servants. Just that he can’t.”    
  
It was not the first time he’d heard of the elusive Lord Harley Stark. The youngest and only son of Lord Tony Stark. From the little that he knew about the young lord, all he could remember was that he was almost constantly ill- too weak to go about the village, even too weak for church. Not that Peter attended the church in the town. He shook the thoughts out of his head. “That one you don’t have to worry about. I won’t ever see him, let alone look at him.” 

That seemed to relax Flash slightly, and he pulled him back onto the road. They cleared the trees in moments, but Peter could see the sprawling gardens and land that he’d be in charge of taking care of. The house itself was giant and old and made Peter feel cold just looking at it. He’d never had more than a house with four walls and three windows and barely enough room for a kitchen. His gut turned again. 

“You’re going to love the other servants, at least,” Flash hummed, “There’s only two more our age- Ned, the driver, and Michelle, a kitchen maid. They’re pretty sweet people. I think you and Ned will become quick friends if I’m honest, but Michelle takes a little more work to get warmed up to.” 

Peter nodded along, but his curiosity got the best of him. “What about the family? And the visitor?”    
  
“Like I said, Lord Barns and Lord Stark are kind and gracious employers.” His friend’s pace was steady, and he thought of how Ben used to walk like that. Like he had to know where he was going. “And Lord Harley is kind and quiet. Lady Sunset- we won’t talk about her.”    
  
“There’’s more though- you mentioned more in our weekly visits.”    
  
Flash’s cheeks colored. “There’s Lord Harry Osborn. He comes for dinner every month and is a gentleman. Very kind, very nice.” 

“Okay.” Peter’s mind was getting more and more restless the closer he got to the house. One day he’d address the flush on Flash’s cheeks, but for now, he needed to quiet his thoughts.    
  
Flash was right. He needed this job. He needed this job and he needed not to fail. He needed this job and he needed not to fail and he needed to provide for his aunt. His step’s faltered for a second, and he brought his thumb to rub against the scars on his knuckles. Even with the paycheck, he would have to keep fighting. It was good- but they had bills. Bills from landlords, and doctors- people who liked keeping the poorer classes down.

His gut rolled again. 

The building loomed. It was at least four floors- Peter had only ever been in buildings that had one or two. Most places only had one or two. His chest tightened slightly. 

He felt dwarfed by the sheer size of the estate already. 

Shaking his head to clear his mind, he slipped closer to Flash, staring up at the windows lining every wall of the manner. In one to the left of the door, he thought he saw the flash of blue eyes, but the second he caught the glance, the curtains shifted and fell over again. He shook it off. 

The doors loomed, and Flash led him in. 

  
  
  
  


The portrait of Lady Macy Stark loomed over the great entrance of the grand mansion like an angel watching over every single move of those inhabiting it. 

When he was younger, when Ben had run the gardens for the estate, he’d seen Lady Macy. He must've been five or six hidden behind Ben’s legs as a beautiful woman stepped into the gardens and grinned with delight. Ben had been honored that the Lady and Lord Stark had found his gardens beautiful, but Peter remembered thinking that Lady Stark looked more beautiful than the garden. 

His little mind had been right. 

The portrait of her matched the faint and fuzzy memory to a T. A painting of a woman with long curly blonde hair spiralling down her shoulders in a way that many would see and call only befitting a child. She had worn her hair down that day in the garden too. Seeing the portrait, he’d gotten the feeling that she wasn’t a fan of pins and needles and fashionable hairstyles of the modern ladies, but rather running wild and free with pink cheeks and kind eyes. 

Her portrait was kind. Her portrait was beautiful. Her portrait was angelic. Her portrait loomed. 

Flash’s first important warning unheeded, he moved closer to the portrait. She truly was beautiful and he understood why Lord Stark mourned so passionately, even as he’d remarried and moved on in his life. She was startling and bright, beautiful and rosy, kind and sweet, the paragon of goodness and graciousness. 

Peter swallowed back a lump in his throat. Best not to think of the dead at all, May whispered in his memory. She had told him that to get him out of his head after the death of his uncle, but here, standing in the shadow of a woman who had been taken from the world in a flash and destroyed the life of one man- and one child, he remembered Lord Harley.

He swallowed back a lump again. 

Someone behind him cleared their throat. “She was very beautiful, wasn’t she?” 

“I-” Startling, Peter turned, before immediately offering a bow. “I’m sorry, Lord Barnes, I was told you would be a moment-”

“No, I don’t mind.” Lord Barnes offered a kind smile. “Lady Macy was more beautiful than that portrait shows.” 

Keeping his head low, he nodded. There wasn’t much else to say- he couldn’t admit he’d seen her once when he was a boy, and it wasn’t like he could say anything else. A warm hand touched his shoulder, and he forced himself to look up as Lord Barnes’s smile stayed the same. Warm and kind and mirroring the portrait looming over them. 

“You’re Peter Parker, correct?” His voice was light and understanding, and he definitely knew who Peter was already and was merely asking as a formality. “My son’s valet suggested you for the job- but if I remember correctly, your father and uncle used to do all the gardening for the entire village back when I visited before my military service.”    
  
The words flew out of him before he could stop to think. “That was a long time ago, m’lord. It was just my uncle working the land for the last fifteen years. And he passed a year ago, sir.”    
  
“I’m aware,” Lord Barnes stayed gentle, “I’m sorry for your loss- and for the loss of the beauty in the village. I’m hoping you have some of his skill?”    
  
“Yes, m’lord.” It felt wrong to talk about his uncle in this way. Like his entire being was a service. Peter supposed that to most people his uncle was just the man who took care of the village beauty. Not for the first time his gut rolled. “I’d been training under him since I was old enough to walk. Any skill he had, he passed down onto me, and I’m grateful for the opportunity to show that.”    
  
“Good lad, good lad.” Looking up at the portrait, Lord Barnes hummed, “She loved gardens, Lady Macy did.”    
  
Peter didn’t make a noise, but he didn’t really have to. The Lord continued softly, “She’d love to know that you were here. She was an admirer of your uncle's work and skill in the garden, so having another member of the Parker family in charge of our gardens would’ve been…a dream for her.”    
  
“Oh.”    
  
“Well, you probably need the tour of the house then.” Lord Barnes cleared his throat gently, then started walking. “I hope you didn’t mind my ramblings. She was a dear childhood friend before she ever made the love of Lord Tony.”    
  
The information felt too intimate to tell a servant but Peter wasn’t going to question anything, rather just go along. The house was towering, every inch of it covered in beautiful things- the casting of the brick, the carpet and flooring, the glittering tables placed with  _ electric lamps,  _ everything about it felt like the height of class and civilization. It made him feel more out of place than he had ever felt before. 

“We try to be as modern as possible,” Lord Barnes hummed. “I personally don’t know how much I like this electricity thing, but Lord Tony’s mad for it. He’s obsessed with finding more means of producing it. Do you mind it?”    
  
Peter startled for a moment, before shaking his head no. Hesitantly, he opened his mouth, “No, I think electricity is interesting. The science behind it-”    
  
“A scientist!” The lord led him through a hallway, following its turns. Peter wanted to go back to the front, to the portrait, to see the beautiful painting again. “I didn’t realize you were a man of science.”    
  
“Oh- I’m not really-” He cleared his throat. “My father was a scientist, and gardening on some level is science. Botany. My uncle made sure I was proficient enough in that and chemistry to understand the properties of plants and soil.” 

“I do think we made the right choice hiring you then, you seem knowledgeable.”   
  
“I’d like to hope so, m’lord.”    
  
Lord Barnes let out a quiet chuckle, the two of them walking along the manor’s hallways in a comfortable silence for a second before he spoke again, “Ah- this would be the library-” 

He motioned to a room lined with more books than Peter had ever even seen in his life. It made sense because Lord Stark was known throughout the country and village for being brilliant and bright, loving any form of knowledge that he could get his hands on. Allegedly, of course. There were tables for study too, and a grand oak desk that the figure of a boy-

The door closed suddenly, Lord Barnes pulling it shut. “I’m sorry, I would normally show you in but it seems it's currently occupied. Either way, I should tell you that the library is free to use- as long as the book doesn’t leave the house. So, I suppose as a gardner, you may not have many chances, but it is okay for you to borrow a book.” 

“That’s very kind, m’lord,” Peter murmured, still on the rows and rows of books.

Stark Manor was known to be beautiful. It had been Lord Stark’s father- the late Lord Howard Stark- that had renovated the entire mansion back in the day, bringing it into glittering gold beauty. Peter just hadn’t realized how beautiful it was until he stared into the library, stared into those large oak book shelves lined with gold lettering, stared into the grand floor with patterns of terracotta, stared into a room with more valuable books in it than he was worth. It was stunning. 

Lord Barnes led him through the rest of the manner, and Peter found himself not paying attention to the words he was speaking. It was probably disrespectful to the lord, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care about the words, when his eyes were tracing the way the light fell through the window. It was golden. The entire house was golden. Despite the oak that seemed to make up the furniture, enough gold accents were embedded into the walls and floor and wood that it made Peter feel unworthy to even look at it. 

Every room they went into- the drawing-room, dining room, gambling room- was more vast and large than the last. Every room carried a beautiful and delicate type of stunning. Every room made Peter feel smaller and smaller and  _ small _ .

He had never ever been in a house as grand as this. He’d never been in a home so beautiful as this. He’d never wanted to be in a home like this. 

It stood over him like a warning. 

Peter wasn’t supposed to be here. He was out of place. He was out of his own mind if he thought even for a second that he was ever going to be worthy of stepping into this world. The world of lords and ladies and glittering jewels and large paintings and gold. 

He was suffocating in the beauty of it. 

_ God _ , he thought to himself for a second,  _ I hate this.  _ And he did. He did hate the way that he felt like a small, irrelevant, poor, ugly, gardener's son. Nothing had ever made him feel like being the son of a gardener was a bad thing, but now- now, he’d seen this and now he knew that he wasn’t supposed to be here. 

His mind slipped to Lady Macy. To her portrait. Looming and beautiful. Maybe her spirit would strike him down and send him away. 

The thought almost paralyzed him. 

Lord Barnes hummed as they stepped into fresh air, and suddenly Peter could breathe again. They were in the garden, and he knew gardens like the back of his hand. 

The land was sprawling, lush and green. The Manor itself came with a large plot of land around it- maybe a hundred feet out, two hundred feet, the beginning of the manors very own orchids of cherries and peaches and apples began, and the land in between that and the garden was rife with natural vegetation. As if it had been a conscious choice to only trim the area around the paths and let the rest of the land grow as it had years before the mansion had been built. 

But the garden itself was something more than Peter had ever seen. He’d been aware of very few high society gardens that seemed so…sprawling and natural. Every few yards there were benches and bird baths, but there were no statues and no fences. Just paths and patches of flowers. It seemed the one closest to the house was a patch of budding and blooming tulips, but as far as he could see there were even more. A patch of strawberry blossoms and rings of blooming yellow flowers crawling up pegs of beautiful glass alerted him that at least  _ part-  _ if not most- of the garden was functional. 

He’d heard stories about how the family usually produced and ate their own food if they could, and looking around this blooming garden only sealed the idea in his head. There were just as many flowers beds as there were patches for actual and practical gardening. 

Much like before, Lord Barnes led him through the land, but he couldn’t care at all about the other man’s words. Unlike last time where he’d been suffocating with the weight of the house, now he was tuning him out as he familiarized himself with a space that already felt a little like home. Most gardens did. 

The air was thick with sweet from the smell of tulips and hydrangeas and so many beautiful flowers that seemingly shouldn’t work together but lended into making the garden one of the most beautiful things that he’d ever seen. He preferred it to the house immensely. 

Kneeling down, Peter reached out and delicately traced the petal’s of a yellow tulip. Calochortus monophyllus. How they had gotten star tulips to grow amongst the fields of normal Liliaceae Tulipa- he was excited to work here, to understand the plants, to get to know the soil. 

“Normally when I get ignored, it’s by my husband or son.” Lord Barnes’s voice was light and amused, even happy, and Peter startled up away from the flowers. “It’s a nice change of pace to be ignored by someone who’s not my family.”    
  
“M’lord, I-”    
  
“Please, I was just kidding.” There was even a note of fondness in the Lord’s voice. It made him feel bad for getting lost in the beauty around him. “I admire how much you care about gardens, Mr. Parker.”    
  
Peter nodded, averting his eyes to look back at the calochortus monophyllus. Lord Barnes hummed, and clapped a hand to his shoulder. Peter forced himself not to tense. “I shall leave you to familiarize yourself, then. If you need anything, well- I’m aware you’re friends with my son’s valet, Flash?”    
  
“Yes, m’lord.” Peter cleared his throat, forcing himself to look back up at the older man. “He’s a dear friend.”    
  
“Well, if you need anything, be sure to ask him.” The lord smiled, eyes soft. “I shall take my leave now.”    
  
Peter watched the lord turn away and walk off, and felt something in his chest that had been there since the portrait of Lady Macy loosen. The house still loomed, but what was a house to acres and acres of garden and wildlife and vegetation? It was barely anything. 

  
  
  
  


A week before Ben had died, he had sat Peter down to tell him that one day, he’d be the man of the house. It had been a far off hypothetical then- more of Ben telling him about his father, about his grandfather, about where Peter was from, about who they were- but he had told Peter that one day he’d be the man of the house. 

_ Petey-boy,  _ Ben had smiled,  _ you’re gonna be the man of the house one day. You’ll take care of your family, and I know you’ll do anything for them. It’s gonna be great. _

And then he’d reached over and ruffled his hair, and Peter grinned, and everything felt perfect. Felt like every other day. Felt like what Peter had thought would be his life until he turned eighteen and moved out to find a family of his own. Ben reached across the table to grab the gauze, and gently wrapped up his knuckles. 

He’d laughed at the time.  _ So we’re boxing again? I’m fourteen now, Ben, you can’t pull your punches.  _

_ I won’t, kid,  _ Ben promised- a promise he’d break on the first round when Peter had managed to kick his ass. After the first round though, he’d managed to get Ben to fight him on equal ground. 

_ You’re making a fool of yourself,  _ he’d taunted Ben, all wild and arrogant from winning their first fight. He dodged a punch, and Ben managed to sweep down and knock his feet out from under him.  _ Ouch! No fair- that’s cheating!  _

Ben chucked.  _ Cheating versus using what you know.  _

_ Yeah, yeah.  _ Laying on his back, he’d studied the colors the sunset painted the sky until his uncle held a hound out in front of him.

_ You ready for the next round?  _ Ben asked in his head, and Peter blinked. Flash waved his hand in front of his face. 

"Pete, you in there? Are you ready for the next fight?"

Reality snapped back to him with the taste of blood in his mouth and the sourness in his gut. He spat blood at their feet, offering a crooked grin to his second as he wiped his mouth. “Please, Flash. That man had nothing on me.”    
  
“You’re an idiot,” Flash stated firmly as he began to rewrap the gauze around his knuckles. “You do realize that he landed about five easy hits on you?”    
  
“They pay for a show. They pay  _ me  _ to put on a show.” 

“A show doesn’t have to mean getting your ass pummeled.” 

He pulled his hand away from Flash’s palm to brush back his hair, the sweat and heat of the ring around them suffocating for a second before he breathed it in- truly breathed it in- and found himself living through all the fights he’d ever been in. There was a reason that Peter loved boxing. It wasn’t about the money, not in his core. 

Okay, it was a little about the money. 

The crowd around them was roaring, and the unconscious man on the floor was being dragged off. He was twice as big as him, but Peter was half a head taller. It was only this year he’d grown into his uncle’s height and now he looked grown enough to be at these fights. To be championing these fights. To be undefeated in these fights. No longer a skinny little fifteen year old throwing himself into his punches to scrape up some money- any money- for May and Flash and him, he was a grown man of twenty. And this is what he’d been built for. 

His muscles screamed and ached and he liked the way he burned as he stripped of his white undershirt, chest sweaty and gleaming. Flash wolf-whistled in a light hearted manner, bringing a glass of brandy up to his lips. Peter refused, opting to spit at their feet again. His mouth still tasted of blood. 

“You need to drink something, Peter.” His friend frowned. “It’s one thing to be dehydrated when you and I are fucking around and boxing on my day off, another thing entirely for you to be not drinking anything during a real match.”    
  
Peter shook his head, cracking his neck in the same swoop. “I’m not dehydrated. I just need a clear head. The boss man said-”    
  
“-said next fight needed to be another show before you kick his ass?”    
  
“Exactly.” He used the white cloth he’d just stripped off to wipe his brow before standing and placing it on his seat, stretching slightly. His muscles always ached after a match, ached something raw and terribly but familiar. “And you know what Ben said. In order to make it look like you’re losing, you have to be the better fighter.”    
  
“Just don’t get hurt.”    
  
“Have I ever?”    
  
Flash glared at him, crossing his arms over the tweed vest he was wearing. It was unusual to see Flash outside of his valet uniform, but even more unusual to see him in an object of clothing so nice. In the back of his mind, he wondered where he’d gotten it. When his friend spoke, he snapped his eyes back to his face, or else Flash would blow up at him for being a dickhead and not listening. “Yes. You have. You  _ constantly  _ push your beaten puppy act too far before you break out your skills.” 

“Bullsh-”

“Mr. Parker!” a cheerful man called over the dull chatter of the crowd, “I was hoping to catch you.”    
  
Peter felt more than he heard Flash’s breath hitch. Turning, he put his attention to the man calling his name- a tall Asian fellow with dark hair, a little less broad than him, dressed like he had more wealth than Peter had ever seen. He moved forward, approaching the ring. Peter rolled his shoulders back, maneuvering slightly in front of his friend. His back felt tense. 

Flash spoke quietly, drawing the man’s eyes to him. “Lord Osborn. I wasn’t aware you came to these.”    
  
“Nonsense, Eugene.” 

Peter tensed hard. Not only was this man a lord, he had the audacity to call Flash by his first name- something private and intimate and quiet. Flash had made it clear throughout their twenty year friendship that, unless you were special, he was Flash or Thompson. What made this  _ lord  _ special enough to call Flash Eugene? It made his skin crawl. 

The Lord’s eyes didn’t look away from Flash. “You mentioned when you were valeting for me that Queenstown had a wonderful boxing scene.”    
  
“I did.” Flash’s voice was quiet and demure and so unlike Flash that Peter was pretty sure he was going to punch this lord’s lights out in a matter of seconds. He cleared his throat, and Flash turned to him, face flushed. “Oh- my lord-”    
  
“Harry, tonight, Eugene. Seeing as we’re only enjoying a boxing match.”    
  
“Lord Harry,” Flash continued, “This is Peter. You probably saw him competing moments ago.”    
  
Lord Osborn’s eyes peeled away from Flash like it was a struggle and directed themselves towards Peter. The man didn’t seem unkind or cruel, but his manners were casual enough with Flash that it made the hair on the back of Peter’s neck stand up. Without meaning too, he flexed his chest and back, holding out a hand. 

“Lord Osborn.”    
  
“Just Harry.” Their hands met in a firm shake. “I was really impressed. You seemed to come back wonderfully towards the end of the match.”    
  
Flash snorted, “You thought he wouldn’t?”   
  
“Well I- I didn’t say that.”    
  
“Believe me, H- Lord Harry.” Flash’s eyes twinkled, and Peter felt his narrow. “Your bet should always be placed on Peter.”    
  
He jumped on that, quiet judgment in his voice as he turned his head to the lord. “Are you a betting man?”    
  
It was an unfair question, especially because he was the racehorse bets were being placed on. Maybe Lord Osborn was the betting type, but Peter was the one competing in underground boxing matches for some extra cash. 

“No, unfortunately not.” Lord Osborn gave a tight lipped smile. “Though I suppose I should be, if I already know the outcome of the match?”   
  
The lord hadn’t meant it in any other way than knowing that Flash said he should always place bets on Peter. But for him- for a boxer- it was an insult. The insinuation that he was cheating, that he was staging and throwing fights- that could ruin a boxer’s reputation. He stood up straighter. “They’re honest fights.”    
  
“I didn’t-” Flash shook his head, and the Lord relaxed slightly. “I didn’t mean to imply- I was- Eugene said you- hold on, I recognize you. Do you work for my uncle?”    
  
“I must go fight now.” Rage was seething beneath his skin. Well-meaning, arrogant, stupid, obnoxious, terrible lords that for some reason were extremely close to his best friend. “It was nice meeting you, Lord Osborn.”    
  
The lord deflated like he’d lost an important bet, and Peter wanted to punch his face in even more. Storming into the ring, he spared a glance back over his shoulder, where Flash looked seconds away from reaching for the lord. It made him angrier. 

There would be absolutely no show this fight, he mused to himself as his opponent stepped in the match. Just boxing. Just flesh on flesh, blood on hot-boiled blood, anger on anger. And maybe when he was done he would be happy and relaxed in that way that boxing always seemed to make him. 

But for now, as his whistle blew to signal the start, he was made of  _ rage _ . 

His opponent was bigger than him. Hulking in a way that would have made any other man in the world fill with anxiety. It made him crack a smile. 

_ Maybe  _ this fight would be a challenge. Maybe this would be a fun challenge that he would be able to get some steam out of. 

Spitting blood again, he grinned at his opponent and the fight began. 

Peter breathed in, the roar of the crowd fading into his bones and stoking the flames of the frenzy growing beneath his skin. The man struck first, jerking forward. Peter breathed out. 

Floating to the left, he kept on the balls of his feet before striking the man between the ribs in a jab that was almost  _ dirty.  _ The man jerked again, trying to land a hit on him, but Peter was quick and he was clever and he was  _ angry.  _

His fist connected with another piece of the man's skin, forcing his jaw up and making him stumble back. He kept advancing, kept pushing, kept punching. His opponent couldn’t even raise his hands for a block as Peter forced him to the edges of the ring in quick fell swoops that seemed lighter than the touch of a butterfly. He wanted them to sting like a bee and judging from the sounds leaving the other man they were doing just that. 

He slammed his fist into the man’s gut, again, and again, and again, and again, each time getting harder and harder. His opponent tried hard to scramble for some sort of edge on him, but Peter wouldn’t let him. Gripping his hair, he slammed the hulking man’s face into his knee and threw him to the ground. 

The man got up again, fists in the air, and Peter had to admit that it was impressive. He had been doing nothing but getting his ass kicked all round and here he was boldy trying to fight more. 

Something tugged in his heart strings, because back before he was unbeatable, he was just like this man. 

It left him open for a second too long and he lunged for Peter, jabbing at his neck. The blows were aimed to make him choke, to cut off his air supply, to disorientate him so that his opponent could take the win. It was a brilliant move- one he might have gone for, once, back when he sparred with Flash and Ben and boxing was just a mere hobby- but a stupid one. 

His fingers grasped the man’s wrists, pulling the arm away from his neck and forcing his momentum to change direction enough for Peter to slam his knee into the man’s gut and once he’d done that, he went in for the final blows, slamming his fist into the man’s face again and again until the blood had mixed with his sweat. 

When he stood up to the crowd's cheers, he raised one bloody fist. 

If he clenched it hard enough, he could imagine his nails were the thorns from the roses in all of the gardens he took care of. 

  
  
  
  


It took the rest of the staff approximately half of a month to approach him after he got hired. 

He was friendly enough with the boys who worked with him in the gardens, but the inside staff seemed to steer clear of him at all cost whenever he slipped in for lunchen. Mostly he just stuck to talking to Flash, which was a nice change of pace. The other boy hadn’t been able to be around home as much as Peter- or May, for that matter- as he’d like and it had caused the two of them to speak less. So it was nice to be able to talk to him every day at lunch, like they were once again kids playing in the school grounds and his uncle’s gardens. 

Today was a little different though. Lord Stark had deemed his son well enough for a visit into the city for a night or two- nothing special, Flash had told him, just a gathering at Lord Osborn’s manner in the city to celebrate Lord Harley’s return to better health- and Flash had asked to go with him. It was lonelier working in the house knowing that he wouldn’t be able to talk to his best friend at all. Knowing that he wouldn’t really talk to anyone, since most of the other garden boys focused on flirting with the kitchen maids. 

Which is why it was surprising when a footman- Ned, his brain supplied, but he wasn’t sure that that was right- slid into the chair next to him. 

“You’re Peter, right?”   
  
“Yes?” Peter blinked. “I am.”   
  
“Absolutely amazing to meet you.” Ned grinned, offering a hand. “I’ve been trying to find a way to come over here and talk to you since you started working here, but you were always hanging with Flash.” 

Shifting, Peter turned his attention to the footman and blinked. Someone had been waiting to talk to him? The knowledge sat under his skin, and suddenly the house wasn’t as lonely. Shaking the thought from his head- because he didn’t  _ know  _ this other boy yet- he shook the hand in front of him. “Yeah. Me and Flash are rather close friends.”    
  
“Really?” Sarcasm, soft and warm fell from Ned’s lips, and Peter found himself grinning with the other boy. “I hadn’t noticed.”    
  
“Yes, we’re very very subtle about the fact we grew up together.”

“So that’s the story!” The boy leaned back and his smile grew wider. “We’ve all been placing bet’s whether you two were- you know-”    
  
Peter paused then felt himself gag involuntarily. “You people thought that I- he’s my  _ brother!”  _

“Well, you can’t blame us for thinking it!”    
  
“Actually, I can!”    
  


“Well-” Ned had a warm friendly glow about him that made him feel relaxed. They could be friends, and it would be nice. “We- well, me and MJ- one of the housemaids- had been debating it all for awhile, because Flash Thompson never ever eats down here, or talks to any of us unless necessary.” 

Laughing without meaning too, Peter shook his head. “Sounds like Flash. He doesn’t exactly like people, and can be- for lack of better words- a complete ass sometimes. I’m sure he doesn’t mean any harm by it, he’s just very…well… _ Flash.”  _

“But you can see why we’d think you and him were involved?”    
  
“Absolutely not.” He shook his head again.“That man’s still my brother. Maybe not by blood, but we’re still brothers. He’s an ass, a standoffish ass that doesn’t apparently like to socialize, but I grew up with him.”    
  
Ned took a bite of the pot pie that the cooks had made for lunchen and grinned at him after he swallowed. “You know, Peter, I think I would like to be your best friend. You’re one of those annoyingly charming people.”    
  
“Annoyingly!” Faking outrage, Peter scoffed. “Endearingly! If either one of us is an annoyingly charming person it would be the one of us who had the confidence to slide next to someone and demand if he was seeing another person.”    
  
“No, no, see, I’m  _ dashingly  _ charming.” The other boy motioned to Peter half-haphazardly. “I was clearly a stage actor in a past life. I’m wonderful. Practically perfect. ”    
  
“Oh, practically!” 

“But if  _ I’m  _ practically perfect, then you’re a true specimen-”    
  
“So now you’re trying to flatter me! Don’t worry, Ned, I’m already wooed by your  _ actor’s _ grin and your handsome face-”    
  
“See, I’m flattering you because  _ I’m  _ wooed by your dazzling brown eyes and strong brow-”    
  
“Ladies, you’re both beautiful,” a lady’s maid- MJ, this must be the MJ that Ned had mentioned earlier- interrupted. “I’m taking it by the fact that you’re flirting with a man in love that you’re not fucking Thompson?” 

Peter choked on his pot pie.

“I- No! Did everyone think that?!”    
  
“No, just us.” She waved it off, looking disinterested. “Everyone else thinks Thompson’s either fucking Lord Harley or getting fucked by Lord Osborn.”    
  
“MJ!” Ned hissed. “You know better than to-”    
  
“Bad mouth the lords, yes, yes, I’m aware.”    
  
His ears felt warm and his mouth had gone dry. It could be true. It could be true that Flash and Lord Osborn had a thing- Lord Osborn had called him  _ Eugene _ and Flash had let him- but. Still. That was his brother, and no matter the fucking  _ mess  _ he got in with lords, he was still going to cover Flash’s tracks. But this would be a very serious conversation to have when he got back. Clearing his throat, he made eye contact with MJ. “He’s not doing either of those things. He thinks of Lord Harley as a friend, and he doesn’t mind Lord Osborn, but believe me, Flash wouldn’t give either of them the time of day. He has  _ standards.”  _

“You’re blinder than a bat if you believe that.” Her voice was dry, and now that he was looking at her, Peter found himself wanting to paint her. There weren't many people in the world who caught his interest like that- he preferred still-life paintings- but MJ had a kind of charm about her. If he didn’t know better, he’d think she was a lady. Cold. Inviting. Clever. “After all, he talks to you, and from what I’ve seen, you’re just as dorky as our little Nedwin over here.”    
  
“Michelle!” Ned glanced at him, then frowned at his friend. “You’re so mean.”    
  
“I’m honest.”    
  
“You’re a bully.”    
  
“Still, just honest.”    
  
“I don’t think you’re mean,” Peter offered. “I mean- kinda blunt, but not mean. I do think you shouldn’t talk about any of the lords like that, though.”    
  
MJ hummed. “I’m a bit of a socialist. I don’t really enjoy the whole lordship thing. Sure- they’re not bad people, but well, they’re still  _ lords.”  _

“You say that like it's a bad thing.”    
  
“See, Ned’s problem is that he’s in love with the illegitimate daughter of Lord Brant up in the city.” She pointed at him, then looked at Peter. “Are you in love with anyone?” 

Maybe he had been in love with someone back when he was a kid, but…now…he pondered the question for a second. “You’ll have to stick with tormenting Ned for romance drama. I don’t exactly see love being in my cards.” 

“Pretentious and overdramatic.” MJ hummed, then turned to Ned. “You believe this guy?”    
  
“You’re the one with your nose stuck in romance novels all day.”    
  
“Only the ones that actually portray women as  _ women.”  _ She rolled her eyes, huffing. “Besides. I’m not arrogant enough to assume love isn’t in cards. Even if it's not romantic, love of friends and family exists too, Mr. Parker.”    
  
“That's true.” His mind was racing with images of his aunt and uncle dancing together underneath the moonlight when they had thought he and Flash were asleep. His mind raced with May’s smile that she gave him whenever he managed to cook something for her. His mind raced with Flash’s palms catching his fists in a fight. Those were the only things he ever wanted to love. Beyond the flowers. He’d always love the flowers. “Now what I’m curious about is how a socialist became friends with someone who's in love with a lord's illegitimate daughter?”   
  
“Oh, he befriended me more than I befriended him.” 

“As if,” Ned interrupted, “Don’t let MJ fool you. She’s a real big softy, and she may tease me about Betty, but she is  _ also  _ Betty’s friend. Her tough socialist act isn’t an act, but it sure feels like one when I remember she’s really a soft pile of goo.”

Throat still tight with the realization he never wanted to love more than what he had now, Peter just offered a grin. “Flash is like that too. I promise you guys, when I get my hands on him, he’ll be less of an ass to you two. If no one else.”    
  
“I’ll take you up on that!” The other boy beamed, MJ looking unimpressed from where she poked at her salad. “I’ve been wanting to befriend him for a long time, but he’s just so prickly- and then he’s like the  _ only  _ servant Lord Harley interacts with cause of the whole illness thing, plus we can finally put a real end to the bet, MJ, when we ask him if he's with Lord Osborn!” 

“I’m telling you he’s not-” Peter sighed, shaking his head. No use arguing between conspiracy theorists, he supposed. 

The three of them continued to banter and at a certain point the feeling that had welled up in his gut when he’d said that love wasn’t in his card slowly sank out of his chest and melted away from his body. He didn’t know what the future held, after all, and these people seemed like maybe they'd add to the small list of things that Peter wanted to love. 

Then he thought of boxing, and uncle Ben, and watching him bleeding out in his arms that night. 

He wasn’t made to love anything more than what he had. 

  
  
  
  


The sun was pricking the back of his neck in a way that should be familiar. It wasn’t. 

Something about the intensity of the work on a great house made everything feel new and raw. Peter had been working in gardens with his uncle since he could hold a shovel and pair of clippers. He was used to the sunshine, to the heat, to the sweat and hard work that came with caring for land. But it’d been a month since he first took the job at the estate, and everything felt so extremely different here. 

He had stepped away from the village and into a completely different world. 

The orchards surrounding the house required multiple hands and Peter found that the days he got to work there were long and hard- he was built just fine, made of sturdy stuff, and he enjoyed scaling things like trees, but the harsh buzzing of bees and wasps drawn to the sweet blooms made his head ache. He did get to nick some of the fallen fruits, mainly peaches as it was the season, to bring home to May. All the garden boys did it in droves, anything that wasn’t sent to the house, to storage, or to the village was theirs to keep. It was a testament to just how generous Lord Stark and Lord Barnes were. 

Despite the perks that came with the orchard work, his absolute favorite activities were landscaping the private gardens around the house. The Starks did not like the standard hedges and pathways that many other nobles did, but rather asked the staff to keep as many flowers and fruits and large shady trees around the grounds as possible. Instead of gravel or rocky paths they had opted for a smooth stone path, something easy to walk on. Permanent. The entire ground was littered with benches and places to enjoy the view of the flowers. 

It was Peter’s favorite part about the entire estate. 

Ben had loved flowers more than any other plant he had to work with and Peter would claim to be absolutely no different. For some reason, the wide open garden filled with so much color made him itch to paint the scene, to capture it in some way. He loved it. He loved everything about it. 

It still made him feel overwhelmed with the sheer size of the estate, but it was nice. It was nice to work in the flowers. Sitting back on his heels, he closed his eyes, tasting the heat in the air and breathing in the sounds of a well-maintained garden. 

He would’ve missed the soft footsteps if it wasn’t for the fact he was paying more attention to the sounds of the garden than he was to his own thoughts. Hands itching to do something, he pressed his palms to the soil, and spoke brashly to whatever other garden hand was coming up behind him. “I know how to work with roses, you realize? You don’t have to continuously check up with me just because I’m new.” 

“I wasn’t coming to check up with you- just- just the flowers,” a soft male voice spoke, each word strained. Peter didn’t want to open his eyes just yet, even as he felt the stranger kneel next to him. “They’re Rosa Odorata- um, hybrid tea flowers. They’re very, um, beautiful. The pink edges and the yellow inside- but um- I like them most for the tea they produce- sweet as honeysuckles.”    
  
“You know their scientific name?” Letting his eyes open, he glanced at the other boy- his breath hitched. To put it simply, this boy kneeling next to him was stunning and beautiful in a way that Peter has only seen once. He pushed the thought away. Nothing more than what he already had. “I haven’t met many people who enjoy the actual science behind flowers.”    
  
“Oh, I love the science behind flowers.” The boy’s eyes were growing warmer and warmer by the second, those blue waves pulling Peter in. He’d never been to the ocean, but from what he’d seen from paintings, this boy had eyes just like them. “These, um, these flowers were bred to be like this. They were bred to make tea, so um, they’re more resilient and delectable than others- it um, the uh- the process of breeding flowers, is-”    
  
“-Interesting? Riveting? Wonderful?” Peter supplied the beautiful boy. Every word sounded like a strain on his voice, but the second Peter had interrupted, a grin broke out on his lips. 

Pushing his curls out of his eyes, the other boy spoke sheepishly, “Am I that obviously enthralled by their creation?”    
  
“Unfortunately yes,” Peter hummed, “But don’t worry. It’s rather nice to speak to someone who understands what actually takes to make flowers and plants.”    


“Rather nice-” The boy shook his head. “It's absolutely wonderful on my end to see someone else appreciates the science behind growing. I love- I really love this plant for exactly the strange way it came to be- not wild, just made by us through science and innovation and that’s-”    
  
“-beautiful.” 

Peter hadn’t meant to interrupt. 

But the more the boy had spoken of the reason he loved it, the more relaxed he became. His shoulders dropped forward, and his grin became softer, his eyes kinder and more excited. Even his blonde hair seemed to halo him in a way that showed how much he cared about this topic- it made Peter’s heart race. 

Science was beautiful. So was this boy. 

“I suppose science is beautiful.” Reaching out, the boy gently brushed his fingers to the petals, “Especially when it makes things like this.”    
  
“Especially when it makes things like this.” Peter cleared his throat after his pathetic echo. Instead of standing up, he offered a hand to the boy. “My name is Peter. Peter Parker. I just got hired a month ago.”    
  
“I know who you are, Mr. Parker.” The boy’s cheeks flushed, and Peter’s eyes felt drawn to how the blush illuminated the freckles scattering against his cheeks like the most beautiful stars in the world. “I, um, I was a fan of your uncle’s work.”    
  
“You were?”   
  
“My whole family was.” The boy winced then shook his head. 

It was only then, that Peter realized that this boy was in the nicest clothes he had ever seen. A white linen shirt tucked into standard suit pants of the highest quality. Nothing like the old clothes that Peter was wearing, instead something neat and pressed. His gut dropped.    
  
“I- My name is Harley.”    
  
His gut dropped further, and Peter immediately looked away. “Lord Harley- you’ll have to forgive me-” 

“No, please.” It was the strongest Peter had ever heard the other boy’s voice, even though it was still a strained whisper. “Please- I, just Harley. None of that lord stuff. It’s not every day I meet a fellow science lover here in the estate- please, call me Harley.”   
  
“My lord,” Peter’s heart was hammering in his chest, “I’m very sorry for not recognizing you sooner, and I’m even more sorry for the improper way I spoke.”    
  
“Please, Mr. Parker, you may call me Harley-”   
  
“My lord-”    
  
“Mr. Parker-”

A horrible shudder came over Lord Harley and the boy began to cough violently. Fear gripped his heart as the younger boy shuddered, coughing up much more than a lung. He’d heard stories about the illness that the lord was affected with, but this was perhaps the first time he’d ever seen it in action and he felt the world narrow, his focus solely on the lord. 

Reaching on instinct, he gently cupped the lord’s elbow and quietly guided him to the nearest marble bench, reaching to rub his back softly, hands pressed close through the linen of the other boy's shirt. Lord Harley shuddered again, trying to intake air, but Peter just tried to soothe him. “Shhh…shhh…it’s okay. It’s okay. You’re going to be okay, Lord Harley, I promise you.”    
  
“I-” The boy took a shuddering breath, and Peter pressed his hand closer. He could feel the heat of the young lord’s back on his hand. “I’m- I’m okay.”    
  
His voice was considerably weaker now. Peter chewed at his bottom lip for a moment. “Would you like me to call upon Flash? Or go have someone fetch your parents?”   
  
“No.” Even with a weak voice, Lord Harley was still commanding his presence in a way that made Peter’s heart strings tug. “No, please, Mr. Parker- I’m alright- I just- the cold got to me for a second-”    
  
The cold was a worrying statement, considering the heat of the day. He it at his bottom lips harder. “Perhaps you should head inside-”    
  
“I like it out here, please, Mr. Parker,” Harley’s hand came, clutching at the hand of Peter’s that was still on his elbow, “I just- I wanted to see- how the roses were doing.” 

Something in his gut tugged. If he were a smarter man, perhaps he would do as Flash had warned him so many days ago. If he were a smarter man perhaps he wouldn’t be in this situation at all. Perhaps he’d be a journalist or a professional boxer or anything other than a gardner for the estate. If he were a smarter man, he would send Lord Harley away. 

But he was a damn fool. 

“The roses,” he breathed, “Are doing wonderful this year, my lord. They’re one of the harder plants to tend to and garden, but I assure you that me and the rest of the gardening staff have got everything under control. Tell me- what type is your favorite?”    
  
And just like that, Lord Harley grinned. Pretty, clever, and bright. “I suppose I like all roses- like I mentioned, I’m very very fond of Rosa Odorata, but I also enjoy Rosa Canina.”   
  
“Dog rose?” He raised a brow, which brought Lord Harley’s grin out more. “Now there’s a species of flower you don't often see in a lord's garden. We have some in my personal home, but I don’t think I’ve ever found out any sort of breed of Rosa Canina in a home of lords and ladies.”    
  
“Well, that’s because they almost never are.” Lord Harley huffed, but his grin did fade. “Dog roses are frowned upon by most noble gardners and even flower lovers of the noble sort- all fools really. Dog roses are beautiful and gentle and grow taller than some trees, and I think they’re wonderful.”    
  
“So you frown upon most lord and ladies’ gardens?”   
  
“I think I do,” Lord Harley sighed, and for a second Peter thought he saw a tinge of someone in his eyes…someone raw and real and beautiful. Overdramatic and loud and accepting and wild. He wanted to know this person that Lord Harley was allowing him glimpses of, even if they were brief and quiet. It was gone before he was even sure it happened, and those soft blues seemed colder. “Or- I suppose that’s not very kind. I just prefer the gardens we keep here to many other maze or row garden.” 

“If I can let you in on a secret, my lord,” Peter offered. He wanted to see that spark again, wanted to make Lord Harley come out of his shell again. Even that one glimpse of a man who would gladly tattle that most lords and ladies gardens were boring and prudish would make the rest of his day. “I think your gardens here are much much much better than any other garden I’ve seen- which, I admit, is not many. But I do like it.”    
  
Lord Harley smiled softly. It was like the sun. “I hope you like it- you tend to it, after all.”

“You don’t always have to tend to things you love.” Peter hummed, smiling back crookedly. “But I do rather like these gardens. They’re neat.”    
  
“Neat? Is that the word you’d use?”    
  
“Organized.”   
  
“Organized? Most visitors say the opposite.” Lord Harley’s smile had grown now, eyes fond and twinkling. “My dear aunt constantly tells us that it's one of the most disorganized places she’s ever had the pleasure of being. Says we need to get with the times.”    
  
“I think,” Peter offered, mind turning, “That you are ahead of your time. I bet this style will be all the rage one day.”    
  
The smile persisted. “I think the world would be that much more beautiful for it.”    
  
Peter allowed himself a moment to stare at the young lord. He had thought about painting the garden’s before, but now he thought maybe his painting would need a subject. The young lord… almost seemed too right, sitting on a marble bench, surrounded by roses of all sorts. He’d call the painting  _ Thorns Amongst Pink _ , and every shade would be a different shade of blush. Something similar to the one that had flushed over Lord Harley’s cheeks earlier. 

He shook the thought out of his head. “I think you’re right. The world needs more beauty in it.”    


The same blush color ghosted over the boy’s cheeks, and Peter felt that urge to capture it. It was stunning, just how perfect Lord Harley managed to look in this moment, surrounded by roses the same color as his blush, as if he was one and the same with the flowers he clearly loved so dearly.

His heart pounded but his body moved before his mind could think, reaching behind the lord to snap off one of the roses. On instinct, he cupped Lord Harley’s hand to gently press the rose into his fingers, the warmth of his fingertips making him feel slightly dizzy. 

If he focused, he thought he could feel the other boy’s heartbeat. 

“For you,” Peter said clumsily, once instinct had run out and he was laid raw in front of the boy. “One of the flowers you enjoy so much. I’ll remember to bring a dog rose tomorrow, if you should want.”    
  
“I would-” For a terrifying second, Peter realized the gravity of his actions. He had just given a  _ rose  _ to  _ Lord Harley.  _ He could be fired for this- he could be reported to something for this- he- But then, Harley offered a quiet nod, and his fingers wrapped around the stem of the flower. “Thank you. I think I’m going to take up reading in the garden now.”    
  
He heard the unspoken want and wondered why the Lord didn’t voice it. But his heart was too busy hammering in his chest for him to think about it too much. Nodding to the lord, he pulled completely away. “Then I shall see you tomorrow.”   
  
“With a dog rose,” Lord Harley whispered more to himself than to Peter. 

He answered it anyway. “With a dog rose.”    
  
The Lord offered a smile and Peter forced himself to turn to continue work on the bush he’d been working on, offering small chats whenever Lord Harley prompted. 

The house loomed like a warning behind them whenever Peter looked over his shoulder. 


	2. face the burning heat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The marigold felt heavy in his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys! So this fic is not gonna have as solid as an upload schedule as some of my other fics, just a heads up. I like... want to take it one sep at a time with this fic because its got a lot of little layers. I really do hope you guys enjoy this. 
> 
> And I hope you guys enjoy woodgarlic :)
> 
> Thank you to Ava for beta reading for me!

“You know, when your uncle was your age, he preferred to punch the hay or grass. Never the trees.”    
  
Peter startled, jerking back from the white oak he’d been pummeling to turn towards his aunt. He cleared his throat, hiding his bruised and bloody hand behind his back. “May! I didn’t realize you’d be home so-”   
  
“Don’t lie, Peter.” May’s voice was light, even if her eyes were weary. It must have been another hard day in the hospital for her to be looking like that, like all her energy had been drained out of her. Even so, she was still beautiful and gentle in the way that Peter figured most mothers were. “Why are you murdering dear old Gertrude?”    
  
“Did it occur to you that Gertrude may have done something to offend me?”    
  
“Gertrude is the tree.”    
  
“I know- but-” 

May hummed, stepping forward in sweeping motions, throwing her hand out. “Let me see your knuckles.”    
  
Peter flushed, feeling like a chastised child. That’s exactly what he was, but it never felt good to actually feel like a child being scolded for stealing food from the stove or slacking off in temple. Slowly, he allowed his hand to move from his back, frowning when May tsked in sympathy. “It’s not bad.”    
  
“It’s not good either.”    
  
“I just-”    
  
“Needed to get your thoughts out.” It was a statement, not a question. Peter knew that was because he was the third person in her life who fought and bled to think. “You’re too much like those damn Parker boys.”    
  
“I’m a damn Parker boy.”    
  
“That’s true, that’s true,” she muttered, examining the open gashes that were his knuckles. “You’re lucky. No splinters embedded this time- not like last time. So no need to sit down and pick out wood, you just gotta wrap it and run some water over it.”   


Watching his aunt carefully, Peter chewed at his bottom lip. “This really isn’t the worst shape that my knuckles have been in.”    
  
“Believe me, Peter, I know that. I just want to know what's eating at your mind so badly that you’ve resorted to violence against our trees.” 

Silence washed over him for a second. He wasn’t exactly sure what he was supposed to say to that- he wasn’t sure he could tell the truth of why he was thinking so hard he had to let it out. Had to let the thoughts escape. 

Because the truth was that he’d been working at the big house for three months and two of those months Lord Harley Keener had come to speak to him every single day. Even now as the air turned slightly chillier and the apples ripened up firmly, the leaves all around them turning brilliant shades of gold and red and orange, Lord Harley came to him. He sat on a bench wherever Peter was gardening and read passages of books to him, or talked to him, or spoke in that soft caring tone. 

Sometimes, just sometimes, Peter thought he could see sparks of a boy that was trapped in the limitations that the world had set upon him. And sometimes, just sometimes, he would come home, and memorize how Lord Harley grinned that day, or laughed, or how his eyes lit up when Peter spoke of a type of flower to him. 

Bile rose in his throat for a moment before he swallowed it down and shook his head. “It's nothing truly important.” 

“Important enough to make you hit your favorite tree on our plot of land.”   


Peter didn’t want to admit why he was lashing out. He didn’t  _ know  _ how to admit that for the last month all he was able to focus on was soft looking blonde curls, and tired weary blue eyes that sometimes shined brighter than any night sky, and quiet laughter on a bench in the garden. How could he admit  _ any  _ of that to may? 

How could Peter admit that recently every waking moment he was thinking about a boy who he was sure he wasn’t even allowed to look at? There  _ was _ no good explanation for his thoughts and feelings. He wasn’t supposed to be even feeling like this and yet- yet- it was  _ all  _ he could feel.

And that was more terrifying than anything else he’s faced in his life except for the day Ben died. 

It wasn’t a crush or an infatuation. It wasn’t anything like the way he used to flirt with Liz Allen down at the bakery. It wasn’t those shy bubbly feelings he got around pretty boys and it wasn’t the awkward wanting of his teen years. It was  _ more  _ than that. Something about Ha- Lord Harley made him feel strikingly understood in a way that even his aunt couldn’t possibly understand. 

Lord Harley talked to him about flowers and gardens and science and literature and small things. He talked to him about the newest novel and ideas for ones. He asked about art and flowers and meanings and what Peter liked. Lord Harley made him feel  _ understood.  _ Made him feel  _ important.  _ Made him feel  _ heard.  _

But the problem with that was that there was no way in hell that lord Harley understood just what he was doing too Peter. The problem with that was that Lord Harley was still a  _ Lord.  _ The problem with that was Lord Harely wasn’t allowed to befriend servants and as much as sometimes the two of them forgot it when they were excitedly talking about science, Peter was still a servant. He was still a gardener. 

He swallowed back bile again. Fists shaking, he rubbed his brow, then spoke to his aunt quietly. “Tell me how you and Ben met instead.” 

“Oh.” May’s brow furrowed and Peter hated the way she seems to age before his very eyes- but he can’t do anything about that now. He couldn’t pretend like some days he didn’t feel older than his bones and more tired than Atlas. It made sense that at any mention of him, May held the world in her arms too. “Why don’t- why don’t we come inside, and I’ll tell you the story again.”    
  
“Okay.”    
  
Following May, he kept his eyes on the back of her head- not daring to look at the flowerbed and the cut stems of all the flowers he had brought Lord Harley. One for every day in the garden. If he thought too hard about how those clippings made his day brighter just by seeing his day brighter, he’d turn around and punch the tree again. He wasn’t even angry just- just- just- overwhelmed. Underwhelmed. Whelmed. 

May leaned over the kitchen sink, filling the kettle with water before placing it on the stove. “You’ve heard this story before.”    
  
“It’s relaxing to hear it.” 

“We used to put you to bed with it.”    
  
“I thought you put me to bed with the story of my parents.”    
  
“We did both.”    
  
“I know,” he murmured, before urging her to sit down, taking up making tea even with his bloody hand, “Now tell me the story.”    
  
“You know how it begins,” May’s voice turned wistful, and if Peter closed his eyes he could imagine Ben’s hearty laugh and warm eyes. “Just like everything began with Ben- a fight.”   
  
The water in the kettle was close to boiling. Peter kept his eyes on that as his aunt continued, “I was walking through the village square- my family had just relocated here, to be closer to the Lord and Lady. Back then, Lord Stark had wanted to get a private baker and my father was lucky enough to be chosen. So we packed in from the city and moved out here on his dime. It was nice enough, sure, a quaint little town that my mother thought could bring them more kids.”    
  
“It never did.” Her voice had a sad note. Peter forced his eyes to remain on the kettle. “And one night, I was walking through the fog and the mist when I heard a guy shout and ask if that was all someone had- and well- you know me Peter. You know how I am. So I follow the shouts and grunts, well aware that I shouldn’t.”    
  
“And you find Ben and my dad.”    
  
“I find Ben and your dad getting beat worse than anyone else I’ve ever known.” Warmth creeped into the hollow of her voice, and with it, warmth flooded back into the tips of his fingers. “I must’ve scared the other boys off, with my measly lantern. They must have thought I was the local beat cop- but no. Just me. Just me, in an alleyway, looking at two of the most beat-up boys I’d ever seen. Of course- if you even  _ looked  _ at Ben, you wouldn’t know it.”    
  
Closing his eyes for just a moment, he thought he could  _ see _ the scene. He’d heard and imagined the story enough times to know the layout of the street, the alleyway where it had taken place. The cobblestone, the brick, the clay walls. The thick foggy air, and the cold dark of night, illuminating his aunt in the darkness. His dad clutching at his gut. 

And Ben, sitting there with a beaming smile. 

“He said he won the fight- he got them to run away,” May whispered, and Peter could  _ see it  _ as though he lived it. “You know how he used to tell it. Any victory was a victory as long as you weren’t running away or hiding from anything. He was grinning so wildly, the grin I would later come to associate with his victories. He always loved winning. Boxing matches, street fights, state fairs, village flower competitions. All of it. Same grin. And even as Richie sat there, groaning and grumbling about crazy brothers who got you into trouble, Ben has the same grin.”   


The tea kettle let out a sharp hiss that broke Peter out of the memory he’d never lived and he quietly prepared two cups. As he poured the water, May continued after a second as though the sound had broken her out of memory too. “I told him he was the biggest idiot I’d ever met. And he told me that I was the most beautiful, most cruel, most hilarious woman he’d ever met.” 

_ Beautiful, cruel, hilarious, _ Ben’s voice whispered,  _ you still are all those things, mayflower.  _

“I couldn’t tell you why he thought that.” In his mind's eye Peter remembered nights where he went to bed huffy because Peter couldn’t quite grasp why Ben wouldn’t want to share why he thought May was cruel and hilarious from just one interaction. “But now that he’s- if I had to guess, it would be because I made fun of him the entire time I helped him carry Richie back to the house. It made him laugh so hard, and I thought he was delirious from pain. The next day, he showed up at my father’s bakery and asked to officially court me, and I understood that was just who Ben was- he liked laughing at outlandish things, and he liked people, and he liked fighting. That was Ben.”    
  
Silence passed over them like a thick cloth- not quite warm enough to comfort. 

“I miss him.” Peter whispered, not realizing he was speaking. “I miss him a lot, May.” 

“I miss him too.” Her voice barely a crack, May pressed her hands to her face, and whispered. “Not a day goes by where I don’t miss him.”    
  
They sat there in their miserable silence for thirty minutes. They sat there, mourning Benjamin Zachary Parker in silence. Ben had  _ hated  _ silence so much, and yet here they were thinking about him in dead silence, only the sound of their breathing echoing through the room. Ben would’ve tried to make them laugh. Would’ve tried to make them talk. Get them to open up in a way that would make them feel heard. 

But Ben wasn’t here right now, and Peter’s voice was failing in his throat.    
  
“This wasn’t about me and Ben,” May straightened up, pulling her hands back, tears whipped from her eyes. “This was about fighting a tree. But now that you’ve asked me that, I’ve got a mind to suspect you found yourself someone who you- who you think could be your Ben.”    
  
The idea flitted in his head. 

There were no possibilities for it, no chance for it, no reason for it. Lord Harley Stark was a Lord, he was a lord, and it wasn't like Peter truly knew him all that well beyond two hours a day spent together in a garden filled with small talk and soft laughter and books and flowers. It made his gut tug, because even though there was absolutely nothing in the world that proved that he could have a chance at this… 

Lord Harley’s soft laugh filled his ears. His quiet, strained voice. The emotions he sometimes let slip through. The boy under the illness who sprung away under Peter’s gentle prodding. The beauty and kindness and eagerness in his eyes. He could see it all, could feel it all, could hear it. 

And for a moment, he allowed himself to wonder what a world would be like if there was a chance- 

But there wasn’t a chance, he reminded himself, opening his eyes to meet May’s brown ones. There was no chance for that and even if there was- he’d learnt his lesson. He’d learnt his lesson a long time ago, and he already had too much to love. If this was even that. If this was even what love felt like. He wouldn’t know. 

“Peter?”    
  
Shaking his head, he glanced away, “No, unfortunately. Still no one who could be what Ben was to you to me. But I’m okay with that.”    
  
“Then why ask about Ben?”    
  
“I-” His knuckles hurt, “The flowers. Thinking about his flowers again.”    
  
May knew it was a lie, and so did he, but it was better than admitting that the first time he felt anything more than a monster was in the presence of a boy that would never see him as anything but a gardener. 

He didn’t say anything. 

  
  
  
  


There were certain books that Peter had started to deem Lord Harley’s. He had mentioned off-handedly that he kept them in the library, but the books on flowers and growth and scientific method of nature were the only books that no one else was allowed to touch. Lord Harley shared them with him eagerly though, always ready to ramble about the book when they weren’t bantering softly over this and that. 

The idea came to Peter to press flowers into the pages one day when the Lord had been tracing the ink on a page in a delicate fashion that made his breath catch. Since then, it’d been plaguing his thoughts every waking moment- the idea of pressing his favorite flowers into his favorite book- and he knew that he eventually had to do it. That’s why, in the quiet of dusk on the day that Lord Barnes and Lord Stark had gone to London, he devised a plan to go into the Library.

He hadn’t gone back into the looming mansion since the day he had gotten his tour, several months ago now, but the layout was embedded in his mind. That morning, he’d gone into the gardens of his house and plucked several dog roses, several lilies, anything that reminded him of Lord Harley’s soft grins and shy words, and gently placed them inside his satchel. It was almost exhilarating, sneaking a bag of flowers to a house, knowing that he was gonna press them into pages for the one boy who deserved flowers more than anyone else he’d ever known. 

The house was very still- most of the staff, like the head butler and housemaid, had gone with the lords up to London. The only people that should’ve been in the home were the scullery maids, one of the three cooks, Flash, and Lord Harley. Stepping further in, his heart raced in his ears at the idea that the Lord was merely a floor or two above him, resting quietly. Not wanting to disturb the sleep or the quiet, he walked as fast and silent as he could. 

For a moment, he felt eyes on the back of his neck. Then he remembered the portrait of Lady Macy and shook off the feeling. It was nothing. 

The library was just as still as the rest of the house as Peter maneuvered past the doors and into the vast expanse. It was truly as breathtaking as the glimpse he had gotten promised; glittering lamps, warm gilded fireplaces. Oak benches and desks, and a cozy little spot in front of it all that was lined with comfortable looking couches. It looked like a rich man’s heaven, and he supposed for this family it probably was. 

His eyes scanned the names of books on the various shelves before finding a corner that screamed to him- the books had worn out spines, well loved pages from what he could see, and it made his heart pound. These books weren’t the families. They were  _ Harley’s.  _ Those were Harley’s books. Those were the books he read to Peter in the sunshine, whose passages had been memories, whose lessons were ingrained in the other boy. He reached for one of the more well worn copies- the book Lord Harley had traced flowers out of- 

The door to the library clicked open. 

Footsteps and panting breathes reached Peter’s ears as he pressed himself behind the shelve of books, Harley’s book still in his hands.

“Please-”    
  


“I know.” The voice was a quiet whisper, and it itched at Peter because he  _ knew  _ that voice. “I know- Fuck, Harry, I know-”    
  
Tension seeped into his shoulders, “I want more than just this-”   
  
“This is-  _ fuck,  _ if you keep kissing- I can’t  _ focus-”  _

Peter jerked, blood rushing in his ear, pressing the book to the shelf again before rushing towards the men amongst the bookshelves. “Get off of him!”   
  
His hands tore the lord off his brother, throwing him as far away from Flash as he could. The blood in his ears rushed louder as Lord Osborn let out a rough cry and Flash made a strangled noise as he reached out for Peter, but Peter was already out of his grasp, stalking to where he’d thrown the other man. 

_ “How dare you-”  _

“Peter!” Flash cried, clutching at his wrist, eyes angry and frightened and for a second he considered maybe he should  _ talk  _ to his brother before beating up the lord. Then he saw the marks on the crook of Flash’s neck and took note of how messed up his hair was, and he jerked his hands back. “Peter stop!”    
  
He moved towards the lord again, Flash hot on his trail. Lord Osborn scrambled up, “Mr. Parker-”    
  
“Shut  _ up,”  _ Peter gritted out, anger becoming everything he was as he gripped the front of the shirt he was wearing drawing his fist back at the same moment. “Shut up!”    
  
“Stop!” Flash grabbed his elbow, forcing him back, using his weight to insert himself between Peter and Lord Osborn. “Stop! Let me  _ explain!”  _

“What the fuck is there to explain! What is there to explain! He was  _ taking advantage of you-”  _

Lord Osborn choked, “No- I-” 

“He was  _ not,  _ you fucking dick!” his brother snarled, and for a moment, for just a single moment, he was reminded of the year when they were fourteen where they had hated each other and beat each other up every chance they got because he sure wanted to strangle the other man now. “Will you fucking calm down and listen to me!”    
  
“No! What I just saw-” he almost lunged foreward to attempt to get to the Lord through Flash, “What I just saw is fucking wrong! It’s wrong and disgusting, Flash! He’s a  _ lord,  _ he could leave you alone and worthless and ruined! He could get you fired! He could- fuck, Flash! What are you thinking!”    
  
“That I love him!” Flash roared, eyes angry. “I’ve loved him for years, Peter! He’s my everything! He would never  _ do  _ that to me because he loves me  _ too!”  _

_ “He’s lying!”  _

_ “He’s not!”  _

“You don’t know that!” His voice felt like it was flames from the dragon’s mouth. “You don’t know that! You have always been a naive little boy and you believe that a lord who could have  _ anything  _ would choose  _ you?!”  _

“I do believe he chose me!” His brother didn’t even wince, but the words were spat at his feet, “I believe he chose me, and I believe he chooses me every single fucking day! Do you think I’m an  _ idiot?  _ Do you think I didn’t take fucking  _ percautions,  _ Peter! Of course I did! Of course I fucking did!”    
  
The fire that had curled in his gut drained out of him like all his energy had been taken out with Flash’s words. “Fine. Fine.”    
  
“Now let me  _ explain.”  _

“Fine,” he gritted, glaring at the Lord who was staring silently between them. “Explain. And don’t think for a moment anything you can say will make me  _ approve  _ of this. I will do  _ everything  _ in my power to keep you safe from that  _ monster.  _ He’s  _ using you.”  _

“You know nothing about him.”    
  
“I don’t need to; he’s a  _ lord.”  _

“So is your precious  _ Harley.”  _

Peter felt like he’d been shot by a hunting gun for a moment, before narrowing his eyes. “You compare Lord Harley to a man who is trying to fuck you?”    
  
“I’m not-” Lord Osborn cleared his throat. “Mr. Parker, please-”    
  
His glare sharpened. The lord fell silent. Flash gritted his teeth. “Now you listen to me, Peter-” 

“-I told you to explain-”   


“-Then  _ listen,  _ you arrogant bastard.” Flash’s hand found Lord Osborn’s. “I don’t expect you to understand, but you will  _ not  _ ruin the only good thing I have in my life. Harry is- he’s  _ so much better  _ than you give him credit for, and he loved me before I ever even thought of loving him.”    
  
The words rang in his head, and he stayed silent while Flash gritted out more words. “He pursued me. He pursued me with flowers and kindness and respect. When I told him to stop, he did. When I told him not to flirt with me he did. And when I realized that I wanted- that I wanted him to continue, I let him. He’s  _ good,  _ Peter- he’s so good and deserves so much better than you pretending he’s some sort of vile creature because he’s a lord.”    
  
“He  _ is  _ a vile creature.” The words felt weak on his tongue, and he shook his head. “He’s not good enough for you, Flash. Men like him-”    
  
“There  _ are  _ no men like him.” Peter watched as Flash turned to Lord Osborn. “Harry is- you- you wouldn’t understand how good he is Peter. There’s no one else in the world who understands me like he does- who understands what I’m like and who I am and what I believe- no one as kind and gentle and loving with me-”    
  
_ “I  _ understand you!” Peter protested, voice straining, “I understand you! I know you! I’m- I’m your  _ brother,  _ Flash! We were raised to be brothers!” 

“Brothers isn't the same as what me and Harry have.”    
  
“He’s- he’s using you-”    
  
“He  _ loves  _ me.” There was such a strong conviction in Flash’s voice, that all the fight drained out his chest. “He loves me.” 

The honesty in Flash’s eyes made Peter almost trust the words. Slowly, he unclenched his fists. “I don’t want to hear it from you. I want to hear it from him.” 

His best friend hesitated slightly before stepping out of the way of Harry. He hadn’t done a very good job of sheltering the other man, given the fact that he was a head taller than Flash was. Not as tall as Peter, he thought smugly, after a moment. 

“I-” The lord licked his lips, “I know you won’t believe me. I know you think I’m- I’m not good enough for him. I know what you think, Mr. Parker. But I- please believe me- I have never loved anything more than I love Eugene. He’s- he’s the world to me.”    
  
“Hm.” 

“He deserves better.” Flash made a noise of protest but Lord Osborn didn’t look away from Peter’s eyes. “I agree with you. He deserves so much better than just this. He deserves so much more than a Lord who he has to valet for when he stays here. He deserves the entire world. He deserves all the stars and the moon and the planets. And I- I will always do everything in my power to give them those things. I’ve never loved anything more than I love Eugene. If you give me a chance, I will prove it to you. I will  _ prove  _ it to you.”    
  
“He  _ does  _ deserve better,” Peter spat, but the tension had already seeped out of his shoulders. “I’m going to hold you to that. I’ll hold you to everything you just said. Because, let’s be very clear here, Lord Osborn, if I have a reason to doubt that you have done anything less than love him- well, your lordship can save you from a lot of things. I am not one of those things.”    
  
His voice grew hard and violent. “I will  _ break you  _ if you hurt him.” 

“I would  _ let you.”  _ Lord Osborn’s eyes were honest and true. “If I hurt him, I would let you kill me. But I won’t. I won’t. I love him and I won’t ever hurt him, Mr. Parker.”    
  
“I don’t believe you.”    
  
“Let me prove myself to you.” He held out a hand, and Peter eyed it skeptically. “Let me prove myself to you.”    
  
He took the hand and heard Flash let out a sigh of relief. “Prove it to me.”    
  
“I’ll start by asking you not to call me Lord Osborn.” Peter hesitated, and the man spoke quickly. “Just when I’m with Flash and you. He- I’m not a  _ lord  _ when I’m with him and I’d like if- I'd like if the people he loves didn’t see me as a lord either.” 

“You’re a damn fool.” Peter glanced at Flash. “Clearly you two are perfect for each other.”    
  
Flash let out a weak laugh, but he seemed much more relaxed than when Peter had first interrupted them. His hand was still laced firmly in Lord- in Harry’s. His hand was still laced firmly in Harry’s and for a second, just a split second, he thought of how May and Ben would hold hands at every given chance they could. 

“Thank you,” Harry whispered quietly, sincere and honest and far too raw for Peter to be comfortable with. “Thank you for trusting me with him.”    
  
“No.” Peter spoke before his mind could think, eyes still trained on how their hands were pressed close. “I don’t trust you. I don’t like you. Make no mistake. The only reason I’m even letting this continue is because you clearly mean something to Flash and I want him to be happy.”    
  
His brother made a move to protest the words, but Harry just nodded, “And that’s why I’m thanking you.”    
  
The words felt ingrained in his brain, and slowly, ever so slowly, he turned his back on them. Flash murmured something quietly to Harry and Harry murmured something quietly back but Peter wasn’t paying attention to them anymore. They got to keep their happiness and relationship. Peter wouldn’t snitch. Not on Flash- maybe not on anyone, but especially not on Flash. 

His hand’s found H- Lord Harley’s book, and he took off his satchel full of flowers. 

In between the pages, he pressed them quietly, mind racing with possibilities outside of his grasp. 

  
  
  
  


It was starting to get cold, Peter thought slowly as he licked his chapped lips. The sun was still high in the sky but it wasn’t enough to keep him warmer than the wind which nipped at his hands and ankles as he climbed the fruit trees in the orchard. The apples had finally ripened, a sure fire sign of harvest season coming upon them, and he and the rest of the gardeners were working around the clock to catch them and pick them before they fell to the ground and became rot. 

Towering with the trees, he was reminded of days that he and Flash would climb to the highest points they could and tumble their ways back down. Roofs, school houses, trees. No where was safe from their wrath. He thought blankly of Ben scolding him after a particular nasty fall and May’s fretted worrying over a possible broken arm. It felt so far away now, that it didn’t feel real at all. 

He would soon turn twenty. 

It felt surreal. 

The autumn air rolling in made him shiver, and he took in the view of the house. Somewhere in there, Lord Harley was tucked in from a long day reading in the garden. Maybe he was playing cards with his fathers or reading another book. Maybe he was deciding it was time to lay down, as sunset reared its beautiful gaze across the sky. 

His fingers tingled as he reached towards it. 

It was beautiful up in the trees. 

Pressing a ripe apple into his palm, he considered it for a moment. Malus pumila. Back when he was a kid, honeycrisps had been hard to come by. They didn’t grow well out here, but the Starks could afford good gardners. Could afford things out of season. Now the entire village had access to them, because the Starks were a lot of things and generous seemed to be one. 

He tried not to think about how sweet it smelt in the air, or how the skin would feel under his lips, like a kiss. He focused his eyes back on the mansion, his mind flitted to kissing. Pink roses soft as anything he’d ever felt and a gentle smile. A bright laugh that only allowed itself out every other time they spoke. 

Shaking the image out of his mind, he placed the apple into the basket he’d been using to collect. No use kissing apples. No use kissing. His gaze came back one more time to the mansion, but this time it lingered in the garden. 

Someone was walking in it. 

A shadow, really, not a person. The sunset had made the person walking into a shadow. He was ninety percent sure it was a woman, but that wouldn’t make sense. All the gardeners were men, and the family had long since retired. Servants were allowed in the gardens, yes, but all of them would be about to eat their own dinner after having served the family. 

It made his gut curl with something Ben had always called instinct and May had always called just a tummy ache. 

The figure drifted towards a certain part of the garden- he wracked his brain for which part it was, which plants were there, he knew the garden like the back of his brian and that particular plot of the land had always stuck out to him,  _ why  _ had to always stuck out to him- and bent down, collecting something that Peter couldn’t see. 

He’d have to check in the morning, but for now, he was stuck staring at the woman. Who was she? Why was she in the Stark garden? Why was she in  _ that  _ section of the garden- why did that section of the garden make his hand’s feel tense? What was he forgetting about it?    
  
Slowly, he racked his brain. The tree that towered over that plot was a common oak, but it was covered in vines and thickets, climbing up the trunk. What were those vines? He couldn’t remember for the life of him, but his heart felt like it was jolting as he watched her drift around the plot, collecting small and random things. 

Just as quickly as she had managed to come, she slowly moved away from the land. Steady and careful, as if afraid someone had seen her. She couldn’t see him, luckily, and he felt his hand steady himself on the base of the tree. It was strange. This one woman had managed to make his gut feel like something very very terrible was about to happen. 

His hands shook slightly. 

Glancing back at the tree, if he squinted he thought he could make out the plant- wood garlic. It was just wood garlic, not…not anything else. So maybe it was a kitchen maid, running to grab it as extra flavoring for the cooks. 

His hands still trembled, but he could blame it on the wind. 

  
  
  


The next two days, it thundered so badly that the windows of his cottage rattled and shook. May had decided to spend the days at the hospital, sending a messenger to tell Peter that night, before the storm set in. He didn’t mind- better she stayed at the hospital where it was warm and dry and not in the house where the roof leaked and made the entire world feel like ice.

He hadn’t gone to work those days- they had been specifically instructed on days where the thunder came in quick and lighting every few moments to just stay home, because it was dangerous to be gardening then, and there wasn’t much to do but wait out the storm before they could return to their duties- and now that the sun was out, he was almost desperate to get to the house. The dust and gravel had turned into mud, but he didn’t mind walking in the still wet grass instead as he made his way up. 

His entire day was spent in the gardens, fixing the damages of the storms. Thankfully it wasn’t too bad, and with a bit of sunshine and pruning the flowers that had captivated him for months would be just fine. He sat there, knees in the mud, gently tending to the plants he had come to love for what felt like mere minutes. 

In Peter’s mind, a voice whispered that Lord Harley would come out any minute. Any minute he’d be there with a new book in his hand to read to him or rambling questions about life and happiness and so many other things that Peter had come to love talking about. Before this job he had been really terrible at small talk, but talking to Lord Harley didn’t feel like small talk. It just felt like friendship.

The thought made him smile. 

By the time the sunshine hit the back of his neck and he heard the other garden boys going in for lunch, he still hadn’t seen the young lord, but he wasn’t too worried. His gut turned in hunger pains- strikingly familiar to the feeling he had had days ago- and he sat up. So far he’d managed to save about half of the gardens and he knew that once his friend managed to sneak away from whatever duties were holding him back, Lord Harley would be ecstatic. 

It wasn’t until he got  _ into  _ the house did he truly worry. 

Normally, the servants quarter of the house was welcoming. Despite how uncomfortable he’d been in the first few months, he had become very comfortable with his fellow servants- in no large part thanks to Ned and MJ. The two had drawn him into conversations with the others and talked to him about a multitude of things, and as he spoke with them he forced Flash to open up as well. While the rest of the staff was a little hesitant around Flash due to…the rumors about him and Harry, they warmed up quickly enough when they realized that he was human as well. It was only when they met up on their days off did Flash and him burst into laughter about the other’s wild theories about Flash’s relationship with Lord Harry. 

But Flash wasn’t in the servants hall. Flash wasn’t in the servants hall, and everyone who was had a tense air about them- like the storm hadn’t truly left the sky. There was no laughter or chatting and even the parts of the servants hall that was bright and alive with people and paintings looked gray and dead. The air was stiff- cold- and the very act of breathing it in made Peter feel ten times heavier. 

His gut rolled and in an instant he knew he hadn’t been hungry, because now he was just so concerned. 

Ned sat quietly at the table, staring down at the floor. MJ had busied herself with reading but Peter could see the worry in her brow and the tension in her shoulders at whatever was going on. The two of them didn’t look up to him when he sat down and no one in the dining hall seemed to have it in them to say anything more than a whisper. 

Head spinning, he nudged Ned’s leg gently. “What’s happened?”   
  
His voice was less than a whisper, but more than a murmur. Peter could practically see the question rattle around Ned’s head, the younger boy seeming to gain five years in a single moment as he thought about how to answer it. He felt his hands shake so he gently tucked them under his thighs.

Ned didn’t speak over a low mutter. “He’s gone ill again.”

“He-” Peter’s mind felt like it had been swarmed by bees for a moment as he processed the word. He didn’t need to ask to know who Ned was talking about, but he prayed to everything in the sky that he was wrong. “He?”    
  
“Lord Harley.” Ned’s hands came to press against his face. “Last night. He started coughing so loudly Flash could hear him from the servants quarters, and then- then- by the time Flash got there, he was choking and- he barely pulled through. The doctor’s already come and gone, but he’s been touch and go all day-” 

The other boy continued talking, but Peter couldn’t hear any of the words that came out of his mouth.

He’d known…Flash had…it had always been hanging over Lord Harley’s head. The fact that at any moment he could take a tumble for the worse and have to struggle through the days that followed. They’d barely talked about it, really, because that wasn’t  _ them.  _ When they talked, it was about things that made them  _ happy,  _ things that made them feel  _ good.  _ And maybe they did that  _ because  _ Harley could’ve gotten sick and been bed ridden at any moment. 

But he- Peter hadn’t been prepared for this. His mind spun in circles and he could feel his entire body tremble. There was a lump in his throat as he thought of how Ben looked in that hospital bed the night he’d gotten killed. Pale. Sickly. Was Harley paler than normal now? Was he sickly looking, another ghost about to be added to this house that felt more haunted than any other place he’d been in? Would this friendship be another mark on his conscious, reminding him that he didn’t  _ get  _ to have people in his life- 

Jerkily, Peter breathed out, “Will he be alright?”    
  
“No one knows.” The whisper came out hoarse from Ned, who looked on the verge of tears. “We’re all holding our breath. We’re all holding our breath. His fathers are struggling to leave his bedside, Lord Osborn is staying here for the next week, and Lady Bain- everyone’s here and no one knows what's going to happen. Prepare for the worst, hope for the best- but- but- it’ll be awful, won’t it, if someone as  _ kind  _ as Lord Harley were to-” 

His breath was trembling in his throat as he inhaled and exhaled, trying to figure out a pattern to make his lungs work in some way or another. 

Prepare for the worst, hope for the best. 

How many times in his life had he heard that? How many times had that been told to him by a doctor or a friend or his aunt? And now it was being applied to  _ Harley.  _

Harley who was soft spoken most of the time, but had rare outbursts of high energy. Rare moments where he’d laugh with Peter, rare moments where he’d grin with the brightest grin that he’d ever seen, rare moments where his eyes would sparkle and go bright. Harley who was gentle and kind and so wonderful, full of sly secrets shared between book pages and flowers. He wanted to learn the language of flowers just for the sake of knowing them. He wanted to know the science of flowers just for the sake of learning. 

Harley who forced his way into Peter’s mind from days in the garden where they would just talk about all of the smallest and least important details in the world. How much had he learned about the future lord in the time he’d been working here? How much more did he have to learn if Harley pulled through this bout of illness? 

If. If. If. 

He hated the word if. 

He hated the saying ‘prepare for the worst, hope for the best.’ 

There should be no ‘worst’. Harley deserved- he deserved to  _ live.  _ There was so much more he wanted to know about the other boy, beyond all the happy things and the small talk and hours long conversations. So much he wanted to learn and understand. He wanted to figure out how to make him laugh as loud as he physically could, he wanted to figure out how to make him smile again and again and again, he wanted to figure out things he hated and things he truly loved. There was so much more that Peter needed to know about Harley. And beyond all that, Harley deserved to  _ live.  _

Ned had stopped speaking again, in exchange for staring at his hands. Everyone in the dining hall was quiet, mourning someone who wasn’t even dead yet- who might not die yet- and contemplating what would happen after. Peter didn't need contemplation or even to dwell on the knowledge that Harley could be dying above him as he sat there in the kitchen. His stomach churned. 

He wasn't hungry. 

Pushing his way out, no one stopped him. The few people who did look up at him looked like they wanted to join him in his quest for air away from the tension of the room. When he’d finally escaped back to the garden, his eyes narrowed into the marigolds. 

They were the brightest thing around at the moment and his hands trembled as he gently cupped the petal’s with shaky fingers, pressing them gently to his palm. Harley liked marigolds. He rated them an excellent flower because they were surely stunning and beautiful but he hated the way the dried petals would sometimes be added for sweetener in his tea. Peter hadn’t really thought much of it other than to laugh at the time, but he wondered, he wondered for a moment if Harley was ever going to complain about something so simple and bright to him ever again. 

There was no use in thinking like that, he scolded himself. No use in false positives, no use in unhelpful negatives. No use in thinking like that. 

He plucked a golden flower, lined with red, and glanced up at the windows of the house. The sky had rolled in a dark gray color in the few minutes he’d been gone from the garden, and the sun was about to be blotted out. 

His eyes stayed fixated on the windows. 

Somewhere in that house, Harley was dying. Harley was laying there, struggling to breath, coughing and hacking his lungs in, an illness that no one ever really diagnosed but always and constantly plagued him. He was there and he didn’t know that Peter was down here, on the ground, aching to see him and assure him that he’d be okay. To give him the marigold that was crushed in between his palms. 

Harley would get better. Harely would get better because he had too, because he couldn’t even picture his life now without at least one hour of soft banter a day. He couldn’t picture his life without blue eyes and a warm smile and blonde hair that was growing out. He couldn’t do it. 

Harley would be okay. Harley had to be okay. He’d do anything to make sure of it. 

The marigold felt heavy in his hand. 

  
  
  
  


Maybe it was the adrenaline that did him in. 

After some fights- not all, not even most- he became high on the feeling of being  _ invincible.  _ Of being the man who had taken home a title and the gold. Of being so much more than just Peter Parker for a split second. And maybe that’s why he found himself staring up at the side of the Stark Mansion- up at the window that he knew held a boy he hadn’t seen for two weeks. Maybe that was why. 

But if he was honest with himself, truly really honest, he found himself there because he’d been planning it for the last four days. Quietly, in his head, he imagined what scaling the building to just catch a _glimpse_ at Lord Harley would be like. Ned had no updates to give him about the younger man’s health and Flash hadn’t been taking any time away from Harley beyond collapsing in his quarters at the end of the night. He'd gotten absolutely no news on how Lord Harley was and that terrified him. 

That  _ terrified _ him. 

Peter would like to think he was brave but the fact remained when he was faced with the knowledge of another person’s mortality, he was a coward who just wanted to know that that person was alive. That Lord Harley was alive. 

So he found himself acting on the impulse he’d had for days, scaling the side of the building to reach a boy who was probably asleep. But at least he’d  _ see _ Harley. At least he’d be assured that the boy was alive. At least he would know if he was going to get better soon. 

His hand’s didn’t shake as he climbed, the actions slow and familiar. He’d scaled buildings as a child as often as he could and even though it was a habit he’d slowly grown out of, the very nature of it felt like picking up a paint brush and going through the strokes of the pallet that he’d known all his life. The bricks made good stepping stones, with crevices and crannies, nooks and parts where things poked out and tucked in, that even with his knuckles still stinging from the punch that assured him his win he was able to climb the side of the house towards the window with the faint, warm, lighting. 

Lord Harley’s room. 

He knew it was Lord Harley’s room, because Lord Harley had once teased him by telling him he’d caught Peter smelling the flowers again. When he’d asked  _ how,  _ because he hadn’t seen Harley all day, the other boy had offered a slow smile and pointed to a window that he’d then promptly memorized. There was almost nothing to distinguish it from other windows but none the less he’d learned which one was his. 

And now he was scaling the building, just to catch a glimpse at the other man. 

His gut rolled slightly as he pulled himself up to the ledge of the window, legs pushing him up at the same time, and hopped up, balancing himself in the seal of the window, hands bracing on either side of him. The second he got his barings, he stared into the glass panes- 

Harley was sat up in bed, a book tucked in his lap. Breathing. Alive. Not as ill as Peter had feared he’d be. 

For a split second he thought his breath was stolen from his lungs and he stumbled, steadying himself on the windowsill. Harley was  _ alive  _ and  _ breathing  _ and  _ reading.  _ He’d be okay, he’d be okay, he’d be okay, he’d be okay, he’d be okay, he’d be okay, he’d be okay, he’d be okay, he’d be  _ okay.  _

Peter realized a split second too late that stumbling had created a noise, because suddenly, blue eyes were looking into his. Lord Harley jerked up, stumbling towards the window with a body- too  _ thin,  _ Peter couldn’t help but think- that moved with a tremble, and opening the window.

“Peter-”    
  
“I’m sorry,” Peter blurted, feeling his cheeks go red. “God, I am so sorry- this is- I’m sorry. I was just- I-”    
  
“No! No!” Harley scrambled to talk, and even though he was clearly straining to be heard over the noises of outside, he sounded so very  _ real  _ that it made Peter stop talking. “No- I- you should come in from the cold- it- what are you  _ doing  _ here?” 

He let the lord tug him into the room and all at once, he felt a lot smaller than he actually was. Harley’s room was at least size of the first floor of his entire house. Much like the grand hall it was gilded and glimmering with the walls a deep shade of red- and then his eyes caught on the plants in pots that seemingly took up every corner. 

It was so very  _ Harley  _ that it made him relax. Maybe this was the room of a lord, but Harley wasn’t just any lord. 

“I got scared.” Shame bubbled in his chest, but he pushed it down. “I got so- no one would really speak to me about if you were okay or not and when you didn’t return to the garden for two weeks-”    
  
“Oh.” Harley stared at him- like it was the first time he was truly seeing Peter. It made him feel raw and exposed. This was a mistake- he shouldn’t have checked- he shouldn’t have- “Thank you.”    
  
“What?”    
  
“I’ve been-” he cleared his throat, voice growing faint even in Peter’s ears for a second, and he became aware that he and Harley were barely a whisper apart. “I’ve been trying to convince Flash and my family to let me down to the gardens. They’ve all said no but- but I tried. I didn’t want you to worry, at all.” 

Moving back slightly, he allowed himself to just  _ look  _ at Harley for a second. Assure himself that Harley was fine- that Harley was alive, at least. “I will always worry about you, Lord Harley- you’re- I’d like to think we’re friends.”    
  
“Oh.” The stare was back, but this time, there was so much fondness in the Lord’s eyes that no doubts even crossed his mind, “We are friends. In fact, I think- I think you’re probably my best friend.”    
  
“And here I thought your best friend was your plants?” The joke came out of left field, but the easing of the tension made his chest feel lighter. “Don’t tell me you’re betraying them now.”    
  
Harley laughed. Harley laughed a laugh that Peter had never heard from him, a full body chuckle full of warmth and light. It swept him off his feet and in the back of his mind, he swore to himself that from this day on, he’d do everything in his life to make him laugh like that again and again and again. “Absolutely not, but as far as human’s go, you’re one of the better ones.” 

“Implying that you’re not human are you?”    
  
“Yes.” Harley said, tone firm and almost regal. Peter felt lighter and lighter by the second. This wasn't their usual banter but it was- it was- it was  _ more.  _ “I do believe that I’m part plant or something. My statement still stands: one of the better humans, as far as humans go.” 

It occurred to Peter slowly, and then all at once, that this is what all those glimpses had been. Harley had been testing the waters with their banter and playfulness and now he’d opened the door to  _ himself.  _ He’d opened the door into who he was behind the image of a sickly lord, behind the image of a boy with a dead mother and two doting fathers, behind the image of the boy with only the soft voice and kind eyes. 

_ This  _ was Harley. This person that was bickering with him as easy as breathing and joking about being inhuman and implying that Peter was better than other humans. This was the boy who he’d seen flashes of in conversations- the boy that Harley was now letting him meet. 

He took his chance while he could have it. “Or something? Or something? Don’t you know what you are if you claim not to be human?”    
  
“Oh lay off it, haven’t you heard I’ve been deathly ill?” The joke fell a little flat in Harley’s mouth, but he perked back up in seconds. “I’m not as sharp as I could be. I could be much much crueler. In fact, you’ve been demoted from ‘better human’ to ‘barely standable human’.” 

“Lay off it! Lay off it!” Peter ran with the joke instead of tensing at the mention of  _ why  _ they hadn’t seen each other in two weeks. Besides, this was the first real sighting he’d seen of who this man was behind the tittle’s and expectations, and he wasn’t about to let it escape from his grasp. “Don’t use being sick as an excuse now, I know you’re way more read than I am. You should be able to come up with some otherworldly creature much more easily than I am.” 

At the mention of books, Harley’s face grew red, and he rushed to his bed, where he threw a cover over the book he’d been reading, clearly trying to hide it. “That means nothing-”    
  
“What book were you reading?” Peter felt his eyebrows quirk, and he sent his  _ friend  _ a look. “Why’d you rush to hide it like that?” 

“You’re changing the topic!” Harley accused, crossing his arms like a child throwing a bit of a fit. 

“Am I now?”    
  
“Yes. Yes you are.”

“And what was I changing it from?”   
  
“The fact that I am completely fair in not thinking of what creature I could be- Hey!”

In his haste too scramble to hide the book and then pretend like it hadn’t happened, Harley had looked away from him. A crucial error that Peter jumped on without a moment's notice to gently tug the fine blanket away from the boy, revealing the book- 

_ Oh.  _

The book was the same one he had pressed flowers into not a month earlier. 

Reaching for it, he traced over the leather bound cover with a gentle touch. Harley stayed quiet, leaning against a bed post, watching him. Somehow it didn’t feel as oppressive as the feeling of being watched usually was in this house. It felt almost like a warm blanket, the way Harley was looking at him. 

Flipping to a random page, he picked up the flower that he had pressed into the pages. It was perfectly preserved, and clearly had been picked up before. Clearly had been marveled at before. He thought, if he looked closely enough, he could see where Harley’s fingers had worn down the petals slightly from tracing the veins in the flowers. 

“I didn’t-” Peter’s throat felt tight. “I didn’t know you kept it.”    
  
“Of course I kept it.” Harley’s eyes were still on him, and it occurred to Peter that this was another sign of Harley not pulling away from him. Or Harley letting him in. “It’s one of my favorite possessions in the world. I won’t let anyone but me touch it.” 

The flower felt less than air in his palm. 

“I’m really glad you liked it so much.”   
  
“It’s-” Breathing out like the air itself was a secret, Harley spoke hesitantly for the first time since he’d let Peter in through the window. “It’s been one of the only things I kept by my side when I was sick this time around.” 

Peter wouldn’t let the impact of the words show on his face, but God, did he feel them. Did he feel the gravity of how important that was. Of how important this book was to Harley. Of how important this all was. It made his head spin ever so slightly, looking at the other boy. Harley looked back at him. 

Slowly, he shifted, pulling Harley against the pillows on the bed. When he was sure that Harley would listen to him and stay there, he leaned against the bedpost on the other side, facing him. Then, gently, he passed the book into his friends hand. 

“Read it to me?”    
  
Harley’s eyes sparkled with something that felt incredibly Harley-like. “Of course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shout out to the dum dums who i low key always look at on tumblr and just :D but rarely interact :pensive: 
> 
> Anyway.
> 
> Tell me what you guys think about this in the comments or hit me up at Peachy-Keener on tumblr!!


	3. so full of love i could barley eat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And a lord asked for his hand in marriage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Muah this was such a long time between posting last chapter and posting this chapter,,, but its okie i mentioned at the start this posting schedule would be a little wild. Either way, I think this chapter is worth the wait. More mystery development, more Parkner development, and more Thompsborn. That ship gives me SO much life. 
> 
> Anyway, big thank you to Ava for beta reading this chapter for me!!

It took Harley two weeks to find his way back to the garden from his bedridden state. His breathing was still off and he was pale enough to make Peter’s heart tug, but he was in the garden and therefore spending every moment he could with Peter. He still wasn’t allowed in the orchard, so Peter found himself going to the orchard when the sun started setting in the autumn sky and Harley went in for the night. 

And then at night…they settled into a new routine, where after a certain time, Peter would crawl his way up the side of the building and tuck himself into Harley’s room and they’d talk there for hours- or until Peter felt like he had to go back to not stress poor May’s heart any more than he had too. It was strangely comforting, the act of seeing each other off at night and going their separate way. Peter learned the way back to his place in the dark and grinned at the stars he could see. Even on fighting nights, he usually made his way to Harley’s bedroom at some point- just to see him. 

The friendship between them was easier than breathing. 

“-and that’s why I feel Jane Austen’s ‘Emma’ gets way too much praise for the story it actually presents.” Harley scowled, the book in question pressed open to a page. He’d been rereading the collective works of Jane Austen and Peter had heard this rant a thousand times at this point. “Are you listening to me, Mr. Parker?” 

“Well, I’m trying to tune you out, my lord.” Peter rolled his eyes, sticking out his tongue at the younger boy. “And I’ve told you to just call me Peter surely ten times now. You call me Peter when we’re alone-”    
  
“Irrelevant,” Harley waved it off. “And besides, we’re not alone, we’re in the gardens.”    
  
Peter looked left, then right, and finally met the other boy’s eyes with a raised brow. “We’re the only ones in the garden.”    
  
“The flowers could hear.”   
  
“Yes, the sedum plants are total gossips. You should’ve heard what I caught them telling the oak tree the other day.”    
  
“You’re not very funny.” Giving him a dry look, Harley turned his attention back to the book, “Besides, I was talking about Emma.” 

“I don’t understand why you read her books when you don’t  _ like  _ them.”    
  
“It’s not that I don’t like Miss Austen’s books…” For a moment, Harley stared off into the flowers that Peter was pruning, looking like he was remembering something with a fog. He had moments like this, Peter realized, when he was trying to figure out how to respond. Who to be. Which version of himself he wanted to be. Finally he seemed to settle on the version of himself that always made Peter feel like he was seeing  _ Harley.  _ “It’s that her main characters are generally everything I dislike. Like- Elizabeth Bennet was smart and clever, yes, but she also couldn’t see past her first opinion and choked on her pride before getting a happy ending with a man who had done little but berate her family and not talk to her. And that’s just  _ one  _ of her characters!”    
  
“So what’s the problem with Emma?”    
  
“She’s spoilt, Mr. Parker. She’s spoilt and thinks she is a class above everyone else, always planning and scheming to get them to abide by what she thinks they should be like.”   
  
Putting his gardening tools down, Peter met Harley’s eyes and let out a laugh straight from his chest. “I don’t think  _ you  _ have the right to call  _ anyone  _ spoilt, my lord.”    
  
“Hey!”    
  
“I’m just saying, if you asked for a golden statue of the moon, you’d get one.”    
  
“I would never ask-”   
  
“-and yet you receive,” Peter teased, marveling in Harley’s scowl, even as a slight blush brushed over his cheeks. “So I think you calling this Emma character spoilt is, how do you say, absolute horse shit.”    
  
Harley scowled deeper, glaring at him. “I feel like you’re insulting me.”    
  
“I’m your best friend, I think I get to insult you a little.”    
  
The words settled over both of them and Peter felt in his bones just how true they were. In the short span that he’d been visiting Harley at and the other boy coming to the garden every day, they’d become much better friends than he’d ever pictured himself being with anyone like Harley. The other boy just seemed to draw out parts of him that were reserved for May and Flash and Ben- and he seemed to draw out the most human parts of Harley. 

Nowadays, he barely shifted back into that proper ‘Lord mode’ whenever they were talking. Sometimes things lingered and pressed themselves into the firm line of his pursed lips, but ultimately, the other boy had started to loosen into something purely  _ him.  _ His voice was soft and his words proper, but the way he actually  _ spoke  _ held so much more than it did their first conversation. He spoke to Peter like one would talk to their closest companion. 

It made Peter’s heart tug. 

Harley offered a smile, scowl gone from his lips “I suppose you get to insult me just a little, but I reserve the right to snap back at you.”

“Yeah, that might be fair.” Peter hummed, turning back to the flowers in front of him. The beautiful dusty pink petals stood out in the midst of the grass that was slowly- but surely, despite their best efforts- going yellow from cold. The first frost would hit soon, he thought quietly before returning his attention back to his friend. “But as I was saying- you can’t exactly call anyone spoilt when I bet you’re worse than the princess.”    
  
“Ignoring that blasphemy to our royal crown, I am  _ nothing  _ like a princess!”    
  
“Spoilt? Check. Flower-loving? Check. Reads Jane Austen novels? Check.”    
  
Harley scoffed. “Flower-loving and a book nerd? God, have you ever interacted with a woman, Mr. Parker?”    
  
“Have you?” 

“Touché.”    
  
“Just admit it,  _ princess.”  _ The nickname came out softly despite the teasing that it derived from. It settled on his tongue and made his breath feel warm in his chest. “You’re as spoilt as the rest of them.”    
  
“Oh no, no,” Harley groaned, glaring at him, cheeks brushed pink. “You cannot have just given me a new nickname.” 

“I’m afraid I did, and it might just stick.” Peter winked, then tacked on. “Princes.” 

Harley made a noise in the back of his throat, rolling his eyes, cheeks growing darker. “You’re insufferable.”    
  
“Aren’t I?” Peter shook his head, returning back to the plants once more. “You’re the one who pesters me as I’m just doing my job- if anyone is insufferable it's you. Or maybe it's Emma of Jane Austen fame.” 

“If I had to rank us all, it would go Emma, you, then me,” Harley listed, but Peter heard the book pages flip. “I do think, though, I’m going to give up this novel and try to get one that I like more, instead.” 

“Might be a good idea,” Peter hummed, too enraptured by his plants to look up at the other boy, “Will you be coming back?”    
  
“I don’t really know- it’s getting chilly and I don’t want to chance it. How about I just meet you later tonight, instead?”    
  
“Sounds wonderful, princess,” Harley scoffed and Peter grinned into the flowerbed. “Now go, save yourself from the woes of Jane Austen’s heroines.”    
  
“I will, thanks.”    
  
Harley slipped away, his steps gentle on the pathway as he retreated back towards the house. Honestly, it was always a shame when he and Harley parted, no matter how focused he was on the flowers he was supposed to be working on. The other boy was always so easy to talk to and tease and just be himself with- but at least they always had the nights. 

Nights with long conversations about everything- books, people, places, the weather, the flowers- and soft smiles. Sometimes, when he was brave, he would brush his hand to Harley’s knuckles. Those touches were far and fleeting and made Peter’s head spin whenever he got them. He was almost certain he would never ever try that in moments like this- in the sunshine of the garden. 

His heart was hammering again in his chest as he thought about it. 

Peter was almost certain that he would never try that in any place that wasn’t the lamp lit room of his best friend late at night. 

It was constantly causing him turmoil, the way that he and Harley danced around each other. They were best friends, yes, but moments with brief touching…the way around anyone else Harley closed up…how Harley seemed relieved when Peter showed up at his window, night after night after night. Shaking the thoughts from his head, he sighed, picking up his tools and moving towards the oak tree on the left of him. 

The leaves had fallen down, but the tree's roots had been covered with Lily of the Valley long ago. While pretty, the plant was invasive and needed to be pruned often if they didn’t want it to take over the entire garden. Some of the leaves already looked to be cut in certain places, which wasn’t odd, as he was almost certain that the other gardeners had been keeping tabs on the tree long before him but…some cuts were in the middle of a leaf, or straight down the vein. Strange. 

He got to work, gently snipping the leaves, collecting them in his satchel to dispose of later. Normally, he’d turn the leaves to mulch, but Lily of the Valley couldn’t be left around long as the animals who rummaged around always got sick and died when eating it. A pure waste of good nutrients in his mind but the plant’s poisonous nature came before the valuable qualities it could add to the soil. 

Being engrossed in his work, he didn’t hear the footsteps making their way up the path until the person cleared his throat. “Mr. Parker?”    
  
Startling, he nearly dropped his pruning shears, turning in a jolt to face Lord Tony Stark. Harley looked more like his mom than anything, but the shape of Lord Stark’s jaw and the kindness of his eyes mirrored his son’s in many ways- snapping himself out of that thought, he bowed his head. “Forgive me, m’lord, I didn’t see you there.” 

“No need for all that,” Lord Stark waved off, stance relaxed. All Peter could see was the way his motions looked like Harley’s; it made sense, as the old man was his friend’s father. “Nothing to forgive, yattah, yattah.”    
  
“Uh-”    
  
“I came to talk to you.” 

Peter’s heart pounded in his ears- had he somehow been caught in Harley’s room and they didn’t notice? Scaling the house? Had Lord Stark noticed them in the gardens? Was this his dismissal? 

“Well, thank, more like. I came here to thank you.”    
  
Oh. What? The pounding in his ears receded, and instead left him feeling confused. “Pardon, my lord, but- what are you thanking me for?” 

The Lord looked far away for a second, seemingly doubling in age right before his very eyes, “Do you mind the ramblings of old crazy men?”   
  
“I- of course not.” Placing down his tools, Peter met his gaze quietly. 

He had the same kind of tiredness that May carried in her bones every single day. It was then he remembered the looming portrait of Lady Macy and the gilded glinting halls and the days that the youngest in the house had been on death's door. 

This man may be a lord, but he was human. 

“Thank you.” Lord Stark sat on the bench his son had occupied not long ago and smiled quietly, “Your uncle was one of my wife’s favorite gardeners in the world. She very much admired his ability to breath more life into the world, and I think- I think you have the same kind of ability. I wouldn’t know- I was never good at paying attention to gardening, I prefer science- but I’d like to think you do. I notice that our lands look…greener, even as winter rolls closer.” 

Peter felt his ears go hot. “My uncle taught me all of his tricks.”    
  
“I can tell- you’re very talented at what you do.” The compliment was paid sweetly, but there was something more to it; Lord Stark was thinking of a different time and place. Maybe it had to do with the ghost of a woman who he and Lord Barnes had loved more than anything or maybe it was just whispers of a past life. “It’s brought a great amount of joy into my family.”    
  
“Your family?”    
  
“I’m sure you’ve noticed…my son…has been coming out here more.” 

Peter’s heart pounded in his ears again, but he kept his gaze firm. “If he has, he’s not really said anything to me. I’m normally too busy in my head working to notice much around me.”    
  
“Either way,” Lord Stark seemed to accept the words as truth when they couldn’t be further from it, “Either way, he’s been coming out here more- getting out of the house. Getting out of his head. He loves the garden’s and the flowers, like his mother used too, and your capability to keep things alive even now in the chill- it- it’s something that has really been able to get him out of his shell.” 

If  _ only  _ Lord Sark knew the truth, he wouldn’t be  _ saying  _ all of this. Guilt wracked through Peter’s body in jerking waves. Here this man was paying him compliments on how his family admired his work and valued him as a gardener and Peter was- was- was- was breaking into his son’s room, forcing him into friendship, and  _ wanting  _ so much more than he was allowed. He didn’t  _ deserve  _ the lord’s kind words. 

“Its really helped my husband too, though he doesn't show it.” The Lord continued with no attention to the inner turmoil that was filling Peter, “I think- I think he feels as though our Macy is finally at rest, knowing the land she loved so much is being properly loved. She did, um, she did love this land.”    
  
“Lady Macy sounds like she was a truly wonderful woman.” The words fell out of him the same way guilt filled him, and the portrait in the Great Hall loomed over his thoughts. “I am very sorry for your loss.”

“I’m sorry for it too,” Lord Tony looked out at the flowers Peter tended to and smiled. “But she would’ve loved the sedum.”    
  
Peter looked back at the sedum and thought that Harley loved it too. 

  
  
  
  


“Love urges one thing: reason another.” Harley murmured, voice a whisper in Peter’s ear. “I see, and I desire the better: I follow the worse.”

Blinking his eyes open, he turned his attention to his friend. Harley sat tucked into bed, leaning back against his pillows with his head tilted, his blonde curls splayed around his face and neck. The book he was reading from- some greek classic that Peter didn’t bother to listen to the name of- was tucked into his hands and he watched Harley’s eyes as they traced over the words. 

The boy looked enraptured as he spoke. “Why do you burn for a stranger, royal virgin, and dream of marriage in an alien land? This earth can also give you what you can love. Whether he lives or dies, is in the hands of the gods. Let him live!”

Harley was stunning like this. Illuminated by lamp light, relaxed, all guards down. This was one of the purest forms of the boy, Peter thought to himself. The Harley that curled into bed and whispered words from books that he has spent his whole life loving. It made Peter feel raw to be the one who got the privilege of listening to his words. 

Nothing felt so real as Harley Stark did, sometimes.

Even when he was reading the words of others he somehow managed to create a story of his own in just his tones. 

The lamp casted golden light on the room and if he focused on nothing but the way his friend’s hair looked like gold in it he could lose himself in his own thoughts. It was merely a fleeting moment of  _ want-  _ one he knew Harely would never have, never allow himself to have- but it struck a chord into him. 

His friend was beautiful.

“I can pray for this even if I may not love him: what is Jason guilty of?” Harley recited, lips forming the words like others would whisper prayers, “Who, but the heartless, would not be touched by Jason’s youth, and birth, and courage? Who, though the other qualities were absent, could not be stirred by his beauty?  He has stirred my heart, indeed.”

Harley was beautiful. 

Harley with his science and his flowers and his words was beautiful.

Everything about him made Peter ache- for closeness with him, for companionship with him, to know him, to know his thoughts and mind and actions. It was in moments like this though, when the banter was soft words between sections of books, that it really took him off guard. 

This was everything. 

Harley was everything. 

“Carried by the winds, shall I leave my native country, my sister, my brother, my father, and my gods?” His voice never grew more than a soft hum once, sweet and gentle. “Well then, my father is barbarous, and my country is savage, and my brother is still a child: my sister’s prayers are for me, and the greatest god is within! I will not be leaving greatness behind, but pursuing greatness: honour as a saviour of these Achaean people, familiarity with a better land and with cities whose fame is flourishing even here, the culture and arts of those places, and the man, the son of Aeson, for whom I would barter those things that the wide world owns, joined to whom I will be called fortunate, dear to the gods, and my head will be crowned with the stars.”

“I could make you a crown of stars, if you want,” Peter murmured, eyes tracing his face. If he was braver he would reach to cup that face. 

Harley paused, gaze flicking from the page to his friend slowly, a sly grin offering on his lips. “I don’t usually doubt you on stuff, Peter, but I don’t think you could pull stars from the sky.”    
  
“So I’ll make it from the stars of the earth,” Peter breathed out, then hummed. “Hyacinths. Blue Star Hyacinths. It’ll fit your tragic greek hero’s routine perfectly, I think.”    
  
“You define him as a hero?”    
  
“In his own head, most likely.”    
  
“In his own head- was that a bludgeoning joke?”    
  
“Yes.” Grinning, Peter stood from where he’d been sitting near the desk and allowed himself, for just a second, to sit at the foot of Harley’s bed. “It was a bludgeoning joke.”   
  
To his credit, Harley just let out a huffy laugh and rolled his eyes. “You’re insufferable. I’m reading you my favorite section of my favorite Greek drama of all time and you’re making fun of my favorite myth of all time.”   


“In my defense, why is your favorite myth the tale of Hyacinth?”    
  
“Oh, come on.” He sat up from the bed, and Peter mourned the way his hair had looked splayed out and messy on his pillow. “I must’ve told you at least three times. I tell you  _ all  _ my thoughts, Peter, you’ve definitely heard why it’s my favorite myth.”    
  
“Tell me again.”    
  
Harley offered a small smile and Peter sunk into the bed as he started to speak. “Hyacinth is the only one of Apollo’s lover’s that truly loved him back.”   
  
“Mhmm,” Closing his eyes, he let himself picture the prince in question. All he could see was golden hair and wide smiles and laughter and long days in gardens. He didn’t think he minded it. “The  _ only  _ one?”    
  
“The only one that’s well known at least.” Harley corrected, then moved on. Peter focused on the lilts of Harley’s voice. He wondered if he could take Harley’s hand, or if that would distract from the story. “Hyacinth falls in love with Apollo for everything he represents- the warmth, the son, the freedom to choose and exist. And Apollo falls in love with Hyacinth for everything he represents- humanity and its beauty, a smile, a new day. A flower.”    
  
“Their love was  _ pure  _ and good and one of  _ choice.”  _ The last word was said like a secret. “Between an untouchable god and a prince who… a prince who can never want. It’s a love of choice. Hyacinth could have chosen any other love, but decided to choose this one. The one that made him feel whole, no matter the danger.”    
  
Harley paused, just to breathe in and out for a second and Peter found himself counting the number of times the other boy went through each motion. This story meant a lot to him. Peter knew it was about choices, about death. It made his heart ache. “And yet, at the end of the day, neither of them really had a say in how the boy  _ dies.  _ At the hands of someone who pretends to love him but would rather watch that love wither and rot than see Hyacinth happy in another’s hand.”    
  
“I don’t think that’s the moral at all.” Peter opened his eyes, just to meet the piercing blue ones in front of him. “I think they did have a say. I think that Apollo gently turned him into a flower- into something beautiful and memorable and loving. I think they couldn’t control his living, but they could control how he would be remembered. Isn’t that the same thing?”    
  
A thick silence fell on them as they observed each other. 

They didn’t talk about all the death in their lives- a brief mention of a mother that Harley barely remembered, a whisper of admission from Peter that he couldn’t picture what his mother looks like anymore and only knows what his father looks like from Ben, a quiet grasp on dead uncles- because it didn’t define them, but in this moment, Peter thought it might. 

What were they doing more than remembering some days? Harley was the spitting image of his mother and Peter of his father and Ben. They couldn’t control what had happened to them, but they could control how those they loved would be remembered. 

His friend seemed to be thinking the same thing, too, because he offered a sad smile. “Love is strange.”    
  
“It’s wonderful.”    
  
“I like the different ways it comes. Friends. Family. Partners.” 

He’d told MJ and Ned once that love wasn’t in his cards, and MJ had responded that he was stupid if he thought there was only one type of love. 

For a second, for a moment, Peter felt like maybe his heart could be opened. Maybe there was more than just what he assigned himself too, than what he forced himself to remember. More than flowers with soft petals and hands made for fighting. His fingers itched to take Harley’s, to pull him into a soft embrace, to act on the  _ want  _ that had been encasing him all night. 

But then, he remembered that Hyacinth dies, and he shuts that idea down. Even in remembrance, nothing changed why the flower existed. 

Clearing his throat, he offered a grin and shook all ideas of want away. “Come on, continue the story.”    
  
Harley did. 

“Well, holding what I love, clinging to Jason’s breast, I shall be carried over the wide seas: in his arms, I will fear nothing, or if I am afraid, I will only be afraid for him.”

  
  
  
  


The chill had started to set into Peter’s bones. He wasn’t the biggest fan of winter- back when his uncle was alive, winter had meant minimal work hours, had meant they might be a little hungrier than the three of them would admit, had meant his aunt working long hours in the hospital- but this transition from the fall months to winter had been nice. Maybe it was the stability of knowing that he had a paycheck no matter what. 

Or maybe it was just the beauty of the land. The first frost would be soon, and he and the rest of the gardeners had already started preparing for the freeze. Transitioning the summer and fall plants to winter, cutting the grass short, pruning the gardens, preparing straw and other cold combadinets for plants that couldn’t be seasoned out or changed. It was an organized chaos and he found himself rather enjoying it. 

It helped that even now, when the hair was boarding from chilly to downright cold, Harley would make his way to the gardens. Actually, that was probably the best part if he was completely honest with himself; They’d talk, banter about small things, steal grins. The only thing better was the routine he’d fallen into of coming to Harley’s room almost every night. 

After every boxing match he’d come. After every long day's work. Whenever May wasn’t home. He’d steal away onto the path to the big house- on the days he actually left- and climb his way into Harley’s bedroom with practiced ease. It made him feel warm, those stolen moments. If he was a braver man he would do more than listen to the other boy talk about stories and ghosts and science and whatever the hell he wanted and instead would pull him into a hug. 

Instead, he settled for the way they lingered on each other. Secretly, Peter ached to know what it would be like to reach out and touch him in those moment’s. He wasn’t brave enough to find out but he really wanted to. The thought had burrowed in his head for as long as he’d known the other boy but he would never be brave enough to act on it. 

The flower in front of him needs pruning, he thought, instead of dwelling on how his heart aches.

His hands were steady even as the bud sways in the icy wind. The world smelled like winter. It was okay, though, because for once he didn’t truly mind. Maybe he didn’t mind because of all the reasons he’d been thinking of recently or maybe he didn’t mind because Harley had already gone inside and he won’t be feeling the wind. It’d do no good for the sickly boy to be out in the cold. 

His attention fell to the water hemlock they used to pad out the flowers and he frowned. It looked- maybe he was imagining things, but it almost looked as though the plant had already been pruned. But if it had, it’d been by someone who clearly was inexperienced, since the cuts were brute. He’d hate to think that some gardening apprentice got into the plant and had mistook it for Queen Anne’s Lace, since water hemlock was rather poisonous compared to the harmless flower.

His finger’s examined the cut. Clearly not by shears. Maybe a knife? 

A quiet voice hmmed from behind him. “Pardon me.”    
  
“Uh-” Peter jolted, turning on instinct. 

One of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen in his life stood before him. 

She was clearly a lady- her hair was done up in a way only rich ladies could afford to do, pinned back with jewels even though it was impractical, her clothes were the finest silk he’d ever seen, embroidered with black lace. Even her coat spoke to her wealth, despite being styled like a normal walking coat, it glittered with fine tailoring and had a big ruby brooch of- of- well he wasn’t exactly sure, but it looked like a Belladonna plant. 

The woman was stunning in a way that- well- if he could describe it- she was similar to the portrait of Lady Macy. Soft pink cheeks and golden blonde hair. The main difference was that even in death Lady Macy  _ glowed  _ with kindness. Her looming painting watched over the house in a way that suffocated, maybe, but the painting itself showed her to be more than just the ghost of a woman. This woman…this woman felt like a corpse before death. 

Cruel blue eyes fixated on him and a screenly sweet smile forced its way onto her lips. “Ah! Gardner. Mr… ?”   
  
“Parker, m’lady,” Peter fought his voice to stay strong but this woman unnerved him in the same way the house did. Gilded and grand and  _ haunted _ . “Peter Parker.”    
  
“You!” She offered an even faker grin, clapping her hands together in a way that Peter took as faux enjoyment. “My dear nephew has told me absolutely all about you, Mr. Parker, the miracle gardener who takes such wonderful care of my dear cousin’s old gardens. He’s very enchanted with plants right now, you know.” 

He  _ did  _ know, he knew and he also knew that this wasn’t- this woman- she wasn’t a normal lady. 

What had Flash told him, what were the rules- the rules he broke and discarded- what were the  _ rules-  _ no touching, no kitchen, no house, no Lady Macy, no Lord Harley and  _ stay away from Lady Sunset Baine.  _ He’d disregarded every single one of those rules so far, but now, kneeling in the dirt, looking up at this woman, he felt just how true it was. Just how much he needed to obey it. 

His veins felt cold, but he forced his mouth to work. “Lord Stark has mentioned briefly before. Thank you, Lady Sunset.”    
  
“Hm.” The lady observed him with eyes that made him itch to flee. It was rare that his fight or flight was activated, with all the situations he got himself in and his constant fighting- and even rarer when his brain ached to  _ flight  _ more than  _ fight.  _ This woman made him want to  _ run.  _ “Your welcome, Mr. Parker.”    
  
He nodded and expected the woman to go on her way and dismiss him. Instead the lady’s eyes looked behind him, narrowing on something. She gave him another sickly sweet smile and the sweetest most fake voice he’d ever known hissed from her lips when she spoke, “Would you mind picking me some of that Queen's Anne's Lace? I know my nephew would love it.”    
  
“This-” Another chill went down his back. She wanted to give Harley poison but- but she didn’t know that. “I apologize, m’lady, but this merely looks like Queen Anne’s Lace. It’s actually water hemlock- which is- very deadly. It can cause seizures for up to ninety six hours, m’lady, it’s very dangerous when ingested.”    
  
“Oh! How terrible!” Concern graced Lady Sunset’s face and it made his gut tug. “I should talk to Tony about getting it removed- I’d hate for Harley to mistake it like I’d done. Are there any  _ other  _ poisonous plants we’re unwittingly inhabiting?”    
  
The question felt like a  _ trick _ and parts of him were  _ screaming  _ that. But this was just a lady. No one more, no one less, and she was just concerned about her family. He shrugged. “Unwittingly is a strong word, m’lady, I assure you the gardener's and I know and document all the plants in the area. We do have a few we keep an eye on- our Lily of the Valley for example, and our Belladona- but I promise they’re regulated.”    
  
“Hmm.” She nodded, and offered another smile that made Peter's skin crawl. “Very good, then. I shall be on my way.”    
  
And with that, she swooped off. 

Peter chalked up his numb fingers and shaking hands to the cold. It was just the cold. 

  
  
  
  


Peter left Harley’s room the same way he always did: A wide grin edged on his face and hands strong on the brick. 

Tonight was a  _ good  _ night. Well- it always felt like good nights now. He hadn’t had a fight and he hadn’t had to stop for May, so he’d stayed at the big house and allowed nightfall to come, only to slip into Harley’s room. The two of them had read books tonight, comedies instead of tragedies, and talked until his sides hurt. It was all so  _ good  _ when it was just him and Harley. 

During the day they were ‘Lord Harley’ and ‘Mr. Parker’ but when it was just them, in the quiet soothing darkness of the night, it was just Harley and Peter. Reading books, telling jokes, feeling better and more warm than anything the cold outside the window could bring. 

Even now, with the frost chilling his breathing in the air, all he could do was grin. 

Humming the whole way home, he found the walk got quicker and quicker each night. God, he couldn’t wait to heat up some tea and grab a book Harley had lended him and just relax for the night after a good time with his friend. It seemed like an absolutely perfect night in his mind. Seeing and spending time with Harley then going home to warmth and a good book?

The world felt just right, tonight.

Or at least it did until he walked into his house and came face to face with Flash, whose head was in his hands, back tense, the only thing illuminating the room a candle he had lit on the center of the table. 

“Flash?” The other boy made no response, so he slipped further in, shutting off the chill behind him and going to the seat on the other side of his friend. “What’s wrong?” 

His childhood friend looked up at him- and Peter was reminded of days back when they were kids. Flash’s dad had been a nasty and mean piece of work even before he started hitting his son, and Flash was prone to go glassy eyed at the smallest of ticks. He’d always assumed it was offspring of the suffering he’d endured at the hands of the older man but Flash’s father had been dead for years and even if he hadn’t Flash had lived with Peter and the rest of the Parkers since well before then. 

The expression painted on the other man’s face was glassy eyed and broken. Chewing at his lip, he gently pressed a hand to Flash’s arm. “Tell me what happened.” 

“He- Harry-” The words seemed to catch on his friends tongue, and he shook his head once before trying again. “Harry proposed to me.”    
  
The wind was knocked out of his lungs. Out of all the things that he would have expected that wasn’t one of them. 

He hadn’t exactly seen much of Lord Osborn since that night, months ago now, when he’d caught Flash and him pressed against each other in the library. A quick glimpse here or there, a passing nod in the gardens, the lord’s occasional presence at a fight which he and Flash would quickly disappear from. From what he could tell, Flash and the Lord were very happy together- at least Flash didn’t have any complaints. But they really didn’t  _ talk  _ about relationships that much. 

This felt like it was coming completely out of nowhere. 

A  _ lord  _ wanted to ask for  _ Flash’s  _ hand in marriage. 

Flash, who snorted milk when he was younger, and climbed trees, and raced him around the gardens, and cried easily. Flash, who had been so incredibly vile and mean for a year during their teens, when things got bad. Flash, who pressed into Peter’s side and sobbed out his truths after months of hiding what was going on. Flash who grew up next to Peter, who had been there since he was barely a kid. 

And a lord asked for his hand in marriage. 

The idea felt surreal. Not only would Flash be getting married, but he would be marrying a rich lord, a man of stature. 

Oh, what in the world would Ben say if he could see them now? Flash being betrothed to a lord and Peter sneaking off every night to see one. God- oh, this sparked something in him that he hadn’t even dared to think about. 

Flash was going to marry a lord. what was stopping Peter from- from- from acting on the urges he got when his and Harley’s hands brushed in the lord’s room, when staring at him, when hearing his laugh. Didn’t this- didn’t this even the playing field?    
  
Or was the playing field the same and Flash was playing a completely different game? 

How would being married to a lord even  _ work-  _

“Please,” Flash begged, and Peter’s attention snapped to his brother’s tearfilled eyes. He’d barely seen the other man cry since the day he’d confessed what was happening at him and the Parker’s had taken him in, but Flash was crying now. “Please say  _ something-”  _

He jerked, forgetting to respond had been stupid, but for now he just offered a grin, “Congradulation’s on the betrothal- I’m gonna admit, I’m pretty shocked, I didn’t think he would-”    
  
_ “Shut up,”  _ his friend hissed between tears, “Shut up,  _ please.  _ You- you of all people know that this is- this is  _ bad,  _ Peter! This is bad!” 

“What?” Confusion hit him like a bag of flour. “Why is this  _ bad?  _ You love him, don’t you?”

“That’s not the  _ point!  _ It doesn’t matter that I love him!”    
  
“What-”    
  
Flash’s hand slammed down on the table, and he stood jerkily, glaring at Peter through tear filled eyes. “It will never work! You really think people like  _ us  _ get to be with people like  _ them?!  _ It doesn’t matter that I love him, or that he wants me, or that he’s proposed! None of that matters because he’s a  _ lord  _ and I’m  _ worthless  _ in their world!”    
  
“Flash-”   
  
“He shouldn’t have proposed to me!” Flash shouted, tears flowing freely now, “He’s an idiot! A fucking fool! He’s supposed to be smarter than this and yet he decided to propose to me! This wasn’t going to work, and we knew that the day we first decided to kiss, and yet he  _ still  _ proposed to me! As if his  _ family  _ would allow that!  _ As if anyone in his life would!”  _

“Maybe-”   
  
“Don’t,” Flash spat, “You may get to live in a fantasy land where you sneak into the youngest lord's room and steal kisses or some shit, but this is the real world now. We’re in the real world now.”    
  
It was a cleverly crafted jab meant to get a rise out of him. It worked. Rage built through his chest, and he stood. “You don’t know anything. I don’t fucking  _ steal kisses  _ from Harley-”    
  
“Oh so he’s  _ Harley,  _ now!”   
  
“You  _ cannot  _ fucking speak!” Snapping back left more room in his chest for anger and despite how beautifully the night had begun, all he saw now was red. “Not when you’ve been  _ whoring yourself out  _ to the one person that would have you! A fucking  _ lord!”  _

_ “I am not whoring myself out!”  _ _  
_ _  
_ “That’s not what it  _ looks  _ like! At least I’m not sucking the dick of-”    
  
Flash slammed his hand down on the table again, tears dried and replaced with anger lacing through every movement. “If you finish that sentence I will kill you. If you try to fucking imply that what me and him have is some dirty nasty thing, I will  _ kill  _ you.” 

“If it isn’t some  _ ‘nasty dirty thing’ _ , _ ”  _ It was easy to put air quotes around the words, and even easier to spit them back in Flash’s face like flames, “Then why haven’t you said  _ yes  _ to his  _ marriage proposal!”  _

“Because he’s an  _ idiot!”  _

Peter slammed his fist down, taking a threatening step towards Flash. His friend rose to the challenge, but Peter couldn’t help himself, so he twisted the knife, “You know what? You’re  _ right, _ you’ll  _ never  _ end up with him, and he’ll be _ married off _ to the next duchess who saunters into town because he won’t fight for you. Because he’s a  _ lord _ , Flash, and all they care about is power, and status, and money-”

“So is  _ your  _ fucking  _ Harley!”  _

“Leave him out of this! Leave him the fuck out of this!”    
  
“No, you want the fucking  _ truth,  _ Peter?!” Flash was in his face now and if he took another step towards him, Peter was one hundred percent sure that he’s going to beat his friend to death. “Harley will  _ never fucking love you!  _ Harley won’t love you and I won’t be happy! Harley is going to  _ forget  _ about you because you are  _ nothing  _ in his life and he is  _ everything  _ in yours isn’t he?” 

“You’re fucking  _ right,”  _ Peter spat, instead of throwing a punch, but his hands ached to bash the other man’s teeth into his skull. “He  _ is  _ everything, but unlike your fucking  _ Harry,  _ Harley is  _ good and kind and everything good in the world!  _ I don’t fucking need him to love me the way you seem to need Harry to fuck you into oblivion! He’s the best thing in this world and I have never needed another thing but his  _ friendship!”  _

The words are said with venom and Flash responded in turn. “Then why do you  _ go to his room  _ every night and stare at his  _ god damn lips  _ and don’t you dare think he hasn’t  _ noticed.”  _

It sent a shiver of pure  _ fear _ down his spine in a way nothing else Flash said did. Harley  _ noticed-  _ and- and- he’d told  _ Flash-  _

His instincts worked faster than his hands and his instincts screamed to  _ fight  _ with everything that was in him, so he  _ did.  _

He grabbed Flash by the hair and whatever feral, ravenous, part of him that craved to fight is smart enough to throw the other boy out the back door instead of onto the table where the candle still sat there lit. He didn’t have time to think over his actions because Flash was his brother and he knew how Peter fought. 

Flash let him come out before they start really fighting. 

It was a blur. 

Fighting wasn’t normally a blur. Boxing felt a lot like dancing, if he’s honest with himself. It was a game of steps. One, two, three, four. Lunge, uppercut, dodge, block. Four, three, two, one. Gut shot, knee, box in head, dodge. Light on toes and spinning. He used a lot of dance moves that May had taught him- spins and twirls that he used to practice with her by pretending to be a refined gentleman offering his hand in a dance- and that had some effect on his style. It was almost always mindless, the way his body moves into the fight like it’s what he was built for. His hands, bruised knuckles, would go back to gardening in the morning. But in those moments he was built for fighting like a dance. 

This type of fighting wasn’t like that at all. 

Maybe it was the length of time they’d known each other or the fact that they learnt to fight together. Maybe it was the fact they always hugged as kids and when that terrible year happened Flash had taken it upon himself to fight Peter even when he didn’t want to fight back. Maybe it was the raw anger that fills both of their veins. 

Maybe it was the fact that it wasn’t anger at all. 

It was a dirty fight.

He could almost hear Ben’s voice in his head warning him against the jerky way he bit into Flash’s arm and the way Flash slammed his head into his knee. It wasn’t a clean way to fight, Ben would murmur quietly, and it was no way you should ever fight with anyone. Let alone a brother. But here they are, Ben gone and dead, and the two of them slamming into each other like they intend to murder the other.

They fought. And they fought. And they  _ fought _ . 

They fought until the moon was no longer rising, and instead offering them a beam to see one another with. Peter didn’t exactly know when they collapsed on the ground next to one another. One minute they were fighting with the goal of murder in mind, and the next he was heaving on the grass with their breaths coming in clouds. 

It registered after a second just how much everything  _ hurts.  _ Then it registers that Flash is sobbing. 

“I love him, Peter,” Flash choked and any remaining fight left in him absolutely dissolved. “God, I love him more than I’ve ever loved anything and I know- I know that if I say yes, we will be  _ so damn happy.  _ But he will lose everything. He  _ could  _ lose everything. His family, his friends, his title. And I- I don’t know if I can  _ put him through that.”  _

Peter’s chest ached and burned as he thought of how to respond.

“Why… why is that your choice, though?”    
  
“What?”    
  
“Flash, he’s  _ made  _ his choice.” The words came out heavy on his tongue, but he needed to say this, needed to reassure his brother that his love was  _ allowed _ . “He’s made his choice and his choice is to ask for you to marry him. He clearly doesn’t really care about anything else and- and- he seems honest enough. He seems- for a lord- he seemed honest. So- so- he’s made your choice. Are you really gonna say no and invalidate that choice when you know, you know that you can be happy?”

A sob ripped through his brother. “Peter- I’m- I’m  _ scared.”  _

He didn’t know what to say to that. He felt like he should say something. The words got caught in his throat, instead. 

“I wish,” Flash murmured between tears, “God, I wish Ben was here. Ben would know what to do and say and how I should answer.”   
  
Closing his eyes, Peter found his voice again, “I wish Ben was here too. God, I wish he was here.”   


“I don’t know what to do.”    
  
“You love him, Flash,” He forced his elbows under him, and looked towards his best friend since childhood. He split open the other boys eyebrow in a way that was going to make May yell at them, and he doubted he looked any better. “You love him. And you said it yourself. You know that if you two get married you’ll be happy. So- So go. Get married. And if he loses everything that's his choice.”    
  
His brother just breathed, tears coming out in heavy flows for a moment, before he too forced himself to sit up. The action looked like it hurt. “You’re so much worse than Ben at this advice thing.”    
  
“Ha!” The laugh made Peter’s ribs ache in a terrible way. “Yeah. But I’m right.”    
  
“But you’re right.”   
  
Flash’s tears slowed and they sat there in the cold- probably catching their deaths- in silence for a few minutes. “I- You should know, Peter, that- Harley-”    
  
“Don’t.” Even without the anger, Flash’s words about Harley noticing his longing stares rang through his head, “I am content with the friendship we have, Flash, and I’m never going to pressure him with anything more. I’ll- I’ll get the staring under control.”    
  
“That’s not really necessary.” 

His eyes snapped to Flash’s and a moment of understanding passed through them. Peter felt like he couldn’t  _ breathe.  _ He needs Flash to spell it out for him, he needs Flash to tell him what he  _ thought  _ was true  _ was  _ true. “What?” 

“The only reason Harley noticed the staring,” Flash murmured, eyes not leaving Peter’s, “Is because he stares just as much. You’re  _ all  _ he talks about. All he’s been talking about since the day you two met.” 

The aches in his body disappeared. Adrenaline rushed through his veins and he stood, eyes wide, “I need to go to him.”    
  
“Then go.”    
  
But Peter was already sprinting back to where he came from when the moon was still rising. 

  
  
  


Peter’s entire body moved on autopilot. It was like he was possessed. For a moment, he felt no pain, felt no fear, and just moved with a singular goal in mind. He didn’t process the world around him at all, the world had stopped mattering, nothing was of any importance except one thing; Harley. 

He had no idea what he’d actually say or do when faced with the other boy, but his heart tugged and ached and craved and wanted, and  _ now  _ he knew. He  _ knew.  _ Harley had noticed him staring because Harley stared back to. Harley had noticed him staring because Harley stared back too. 

That was  _ everything.  _

The cold should have started to affect his fingers, he realized as he gripped the brick, but in this moment he was more than human. In his own mind, he was Orpheus, pushing through the cold and darkness of the underworld for the meere chance of reuniting with his Eurydice. But he wasn’t Orpheus because he didn’t play the lyre, he spoke with his fists; his love wasn’t dead, Harley was so,  _ so _ alive; and he wouldn’t let this slip through his fingers. 

Harley’s room was illuminated by a single candle. No lamps lit, just the other boy reading by candle light. His breath caught in his throat. 

Peter had stared at him every single day since they met. Peter had wanted him. Had thought of their conversations. Had gone over it in his head again and again and again for what must have been ages. He’d memorized the lilts of Harley’s soft voice, the scratchy nature of it after a bad spell, the gentle way words were formed, the brashness he showed when it was just them. He’d painted the blue of Harley’s eyes. He’d fallen in love the moment they spoke about the damn dog rose. 

His fingers rapped upon the window, and he watched as the other boy jolted up, eyes widening. 

It had been a long time since Harley had to unlock the window for him. Normally the window stayed unlocked, stayed ready for Peter to come back through it, but he’d already visited tonight. He’d already made himself known tonight. Now, under the revelations of the moon, he was  _ back,  _ to  _ chance  _ the fate he had sworn to himself that he would never chance. 

He’d  _ told himself _ that he wouldn’t allow for more love than this to creep into his heart, but god, if looking now at the boy unlocking his window with wide eyes didn’t make him eat his words. Who cared if tragedy would follow if he could just have this now? If he could go into that room and take Harley in his arms and- 

“Peter,” Harley breathed, eyes wide and concerned, “Oh, Peter, what  _ happened _ to you-” 

In the back of his mind, Peter realized what he must look like, but he was too busy taking in the way that Harley was urging him into the room in nothing but a silk robe- he could  _ see _ his collarbones- to care much about how injured and broken he must look. Instead, he stepped into the room, mere inches from the boy of his dreams. “I needed to see you.” 

“You-” Harley’s breath hitched and for a moment Peter thought he was going to reach out to touch him, but Harley’s hands tightened on his robe instead. “What happened- you’ve never- you’ve never been this hurt before.”    
  
“It doesn’t matter.” The words felt heavy on his tongue and he  _ ached  _ to brush his fingers across the curve of Harley’s jaw, to memorize the way his skin felt, to map out the freckles with his fingers. “Believe me, right now, nothing but you matter.”    
  
The words made the other boy shiver, eyes widening. “Peter-”   
  
“Is it  _ true, _ Harley?” 

It was unfair to ask, because Harley didn’t know what he was asking, but he could see more now. Before, he hadn’t let himself believe that Harley glanced at him the same way that he glanced at Harley. Hadn’t let himself  _ see _ how Harley looked at his lips when he spoke. 

God, he wanted to touch him. 

“I don’t know-” Harley’s voice cleared, coming out weaker than before, but for once Peter could tell it had nothing to do with his affinity for taking ill. Absolutely nothing to do with the way that he’d cough on bad nights. This was just pure- pure whatever  _ this _ was. Whatever was between them. “Is what true, Peter?”    
  
“Is it true that you stare at me as much as I stare at you?” Harley inhaled sharply. “Is it true that you think about me as much as I think about you? Is it  _ true?”  _

Wide blue eyes met brown. Peter kept going. 

“I need to know, is it true that you crave me as much as I have been craving you all along? The flowers- the gardens- none of it matters as much as you do, and I need to know, is it true that you want me?” 

“I-” His hands tightened on his robe, and Peter ached to touch them. He had his answers in Harley’s eyes, but he needed to hear it from his mouth. “Peter,  _ please.”  _

He stepped closer at the same moment Harley did. They were barely a hair’s width apart now, and he could feel the heat radiating from every inch of the other boy's body. He wanted to run his fingers down Harley’s throat. He wanted to kiss him. He wanted to trace every single part of the other boy's body in ways that no one else would ever be allowed too. 

But he wouldn’t. Not until Harley said that it was  _ true.  _

“Tell me I’m not an idiot.” Peter whispered into the space between them, space that seemed to grow smaller with every second. If he focused, he could feel Harley’s breath on his collarbone. “Tell me that I’m not an idiot. Tell me that I didn’t hear wrong- that I’m not seeing this wrong. Tell me that you want me, Harley Stark.”    
  
“You’re not an idiot,” Harley chewed at his lips and the motion brought Peter’s eyes to them. They looked as soft as rose petals and not for the first time he wondered what they would feel like against his own. “God, you’re not an idiot- but- but you are  _ hurt-”  _

“I told you that it didn’t matter. Tell me, Harley, tell me now, is it  _ true.  _ Is it  _ true  _ that you  _ want  _ me.”    
  
For one dreadful moment, Peter thought he wouldn’t say anything. 

But then Harley let out a breath, eyes still pinned to Peter’s, he whispered the words quieter than he’s ever said anything- like these words are treasures he couldn’t bear to part with. “I have wanted you forever.” 

The words ignite something in him. Maybe it had been ignited since the day he’d met Harley, but now he was burning. 

He couldn’t help himself- and for the first time, for the first time beyond brushes of fingers exchanging flowers and books- he let himself touch Harley, fingers dragging against the skin of his jaw, brushing where jaw met neck. It sent electricity down his spine and Harley gasped, his own hand coming to grasp at Peter’s wrist like a lifeline, “Peter-” 

“Tell me to stop and I will. Tell me to go home, and I will.”    
  
“I can’t- I can’t do that.” The words were breathless gasps, and with the hand not touching Harley already, he dragged the other boy to him by the hips, pressing every inch he could against Harley. It felt like fire. It felt like burning. It was everything. “If I were better- a better man- I would, but god, I can’t do that.”    
  
“Don’t say that. You’re perfect.”    
  
“No, Peter, but you are.”    
  
“Tell me now, Harley, do you want this?” 

_ Do you want me? _

“I told you. Yes.”   
  
_ I have wanted you forever.  _

After a lifetime of avoiding touching the Lord, Peter allows himself to drag his fingers against the other’s skin, cupping his face and pressing their foreheads together. For a moment, all they could do was breathe in each other, and then, Harley’s hand found the back of his neck, and he ached and he burned and he  _ wanted to.  _

For the first time since he was a child he  _ took _ . He took what is being offered to him by this boy who has captured all of his senses. 

Their first kiss burned its way into all of his senses and made him feel like a phoenix. Completely reborn and remade. Kissing Harley felt like the beginning of something wonderful. They fit together in a way that made his hands tremble- he didn’t  _ believe  _ in the idea that people were made for one another, but then again, if people weren’t made for each other why did Harley’s body press into all the parts of him he loved? Why did their lips fit together like they were made to do this?   
  
Gasping, he pulled away, only to brush hot kisses against Harley’s jawline- his entire body felt on fire. Harley let out a low sound from somewhere in the back of his throat and  _ oh  _ wasn’t that just  _ everything  _ good in the world? The sound of Harley- Harley’s hands tugged at his hair, and he found his mind going blank. On instinct, he hauled the other boy up, giving him leverage and guiding Harley’s legs around his waist. Stumbling, he found his way to the bed, silk sheets messily strewn out below them. 

“Peter-” Harley breathed,  _ “More.”  _

His heart felt like it was gonna burst, and he leaned down, staring at the boy below him, “Lemme- lemme look at you-” 

“I want you to kiss me again,” Harley murmured, hands slipping from his hair to trace along his jawline. Peter shuddered. “God, I don’t- I don’t ever wanna do anything but kiss you ever again-”    
  
Harley tugged him down, and their lips met again. Just like the first kiss it felt like sparks and fire and things he wasn’t sure that he had wanted before, but now settled in his gut like old lovers reminding him of something from a past life- or- or- or something- it was kind of hard to focus when Harley’s teeth dragged on his bottom lip, and Goddamn Peter wanted to take and take. And then he  _ did.  _

He devoured the other boy's mouth, dragging his body closer and closer until he wasn’t really sure where he bagan and Harley ended. His hands were traveling everywhere he had access too- brushing over his sides, dipping into the hallows of his ribs, pressing his thumbs into the crevice between his collarbones and neck. He needed to feel every single part of Harley. God- he wanted, he wanted, he wanted, and now he was taking. 

Their kisses burned, lasted forever, only pulling back for momentary breaths, and for Peter to press fiery kisses to that damn neck that he caught himself looking at in the gardens. Harley squirmed under him, returning all the touches with the sam eagerness- hands wandering from his back to his side to up his  _ shirt  _ and god damn it Peter was shaling with the way those hands managed to feel both gentle and rough, and fuck if he didn’t like the way Harley was murmuring his name every single minute.    
  
He wanted. 

And Harley wanted too. 

God, wasn’t that everything? Harley wanted too. Harley wanted  _ him _ , too. Harley wanted him to do this, to kiss him, to be kissed, to touch and be touched. Wasn’t that  _ everything.  _

A laugh bubbled from his chest, breaking through his lips and filling him to the brim with  _ love.  _ He was so fucking happy. He was so fucking happy. 

“Harley, Harley, Harley,” he murmured, giggling into the other boy's neck. “God- I didn’t think-“ 

Harley began to laugh too, “I didn’t think either- I thought I was imagining it-“

“You weren’t.” The words felt like a promise and Peter smiled into Harley's collar bone, “God, you weren’t. You weren’t.” 

“I’m so happy I wasn’t.” Hands began to gently pull his hair until Peter relented his comfortable spot in Harley’s neck to look up at him with a smile. “I’m so happy I wasn’t imagining things.” 

He kissed Harley again, gentle and wanting and just as blazing as every other time. “We gotta stop- we gotta stop but now-“

“Now, there will be more time for this.” Harley breathed the realization like it had just struck him. “Now there’s gonna be a lot more time for- for- for this.” 

“Yes. God, yes.” 

“Okay…” The words were a breath as Harley pulled him down for a kiss. “Okay. Then- then you can go, but god, is this all I’m ever gonna think about ever again.” 

Another giggle rose in Peter's throat, “I’ll come back every night to remind you what to think about.” 

“I’d like that,” Harley whispered. “Nights like this. God. I want- I- I want so many more nights like this.” 

“As you wish, love.” The pet name slipped out and Harley's cheeks turned a brilliant shade of red. “As you wish.”

The other man leaned up to kiss him gently. “I know- I know you have to leave. But- but- I’ll see you tomorrow. Yes?”

“Always.” 

Harley gently pushed him away, sitting up in the process. He tucked his robe back close to his skin and Peter took a minute to appreciate the mess he’d made the other boy's hair. Took a minute to take in the ruby red sheen of his lips. Took a minute to realize just how debauched Harley looked. 

He’d done that, he thought giddly, He’d done that. 

God, what a wonderful feeling. 

He stepped back towards the window, but before he made it very far, Harley jolted up, taking his hand and tugging him back close, lips brushing his once more. Peter melted into the feeling, allowing the other to kiss him one more time, hands pulling Harley towards him. 

By the time they pulled away, Harley was panting and Peter was having trouble keeping his breathing under control as well. Biting at his lip, the other boy looked up at him, “Goodnight…. goodnight, darling. We- tomorrow?” 

“Tomorrow,” Peter confirmed, blood rushing to his cheeks at the simple pet name. “We’ll have tomorrow.” 

With that, Harley let him go and he made his way down the window again. When he looked up, Harley was looking at him through the glass. 

It made his heart race with possibilities. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please please let me know what you think!! 
> 
> You can find me at Peachy-Keener on tumblr or tell me what you think down below. Big muah to Emry and Lovely and Ava y'all just been in more corner to listen to me ramble recently.

**Author's Note:**

> Again, thank you so much for reading!! I really appreciate it!! Tell me what you guys think in the comments or in my asks on tumblr at Peachy-Keener!


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